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?

If you like her—and I do, like her—there is really only one guideline before hitting “Send.”

Will it make her smile?

Okay. Hit “Send.”

If you believe in the power of magic
It's all a fantasy
So if you need to believe in someone
Just pretend it's me
It ain't enough that we meet as strangers
I can't set you free
So will you turn your back forever on what you mean to me?

Don't answer me, don't break the silence
Don't let me win
Don't answer me, stay on your island
Don't let me in

Run away and hide from everyone
Can you change the things we've said and done?

What i'm listening to:

Don’t Answer Me
The Alan Parsons Project
Ammonia Avenue

Today is another birthday.

No, not mine... the birthday of a loved one.

She’s no longer interested in celebrating either.

Imagine, celebrating the day all of your troubles started.

Yeah, it’s kind of like that. Yet, I’m okay with not making it to the next one. Unlike most people. At least in my observations.

So many are afraid to live. And afraid to die. Even those nearing the finish line.

Me? Memento Mori. Bring it on.

I have few regrets. I am still satisfied if I die without ever setting foot in Alabama or Tennessee. If I never taste another pancake with maple syrup. Even, if I never find myself inside another Moldovan beauty.

Although, the latter I’d love to experience. She may be the one that keeps me going.

I don’t need to mark, nor celebrate, trips around the sun to achieve that goal.

Anyway, happy birthday, beautiful. We won’t celebrate, yet I will manage to get you a couple of small tokens I picked up.

My father could fix anything. A true tinkerer. Perhaps that’s where I get it from.

When that old stereo failed to belt out the arena rock at a suitable volume, he loved taking the panel off and diving right in. He taught me how to solder. How to clean components. And sometimes he made it up as he went along. Occasionally there was a piece or two left over—and in a drawer. But whatever he fixed worked!

Yet, I don’t ever recall him building anything. Rebuild, yes. I remember how much he loved restoring that ’49 Chevy pickup. And the ’71. He loved his Chevrolets made with real steel.

Admittedly, I wasn’t around much. Maybe he did light construction I was unaware of. Framed a wall. Finished a room. I vaguely recall he wasn’t a fan of swinging a hammer—or at least smashing a thumb. Wait, that could’ve been me…

Imagine how blown away I was as a child, when I saw someone actually use graph paper to sketch out a room. A house. With numbers and calculations and everything. And then build that internal wall. And stand it up. And it actually fits.

Truly building!

So many power tools. And he taught me how to use them. Safely.

Because he loves all of his fingers and toes too. His brother had one finger missing from an accident. And no teeth. But I digress.

I recall building the house they still live in as money permitted. There was no real hurry—that drafty trailer house his grandmother left him provided some shelter. It was a truly glorious day when we moved into that new construction.

And how well constructed it was. I may never know how much of that was by design. Versus by accident.

Not drafty at all. In fact, the entire house made a “Woosh” sound whenever a door—or window—opened. A change in air pressure. Not the most desirable quality when I or my little sister, with our simmering teenage hormones, decided to be sneaky fuckers and slip out of the house, unnoticed, only to find we were locked out upon our return.

Certainly, worse punishment than coming home with a light on… yet, the point is how well constructed something only a handful of people can build.

I’m no longer a child. Yet, I was truly a li’l shit during the time in my life when I was asked to help work on the house. That and gardening. And hunting for fresh meat. The little things that’d be nice to know for… survival.

No, but I can probably fix that seven foot long console stereo that no longer works. Or that jukebox that plays 45’s… even if those are getting hard to find. Hell, I can probably get that ancient iPod buried in your desk working. My 20-year-old one has had parts… replaced.

Perhaps, learning to fix things and make them last… forever… attributes to my sense of scarcity. But I digress again.

Currently, I am faced with an opportunity. A truly new direction. Project management for a physical project. Running a staff/household where there will be gardening. And light construction. Work hard. Play hard. And plenty of time to watch my own dreams unfold.

And I’m terrified. Even if I fantasize about building my own place one day. And lament not having paid attention. At least I can read a blueprint. And understand why certain components are placed where they are, demands from the physical world. Plus, this opportunity will require me to let go of my judgments. And to see the abundance in the universe. And to build something tangible. Not just ghosts in the machine. All good things!

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to build something. And discover abundance along the way. And leave something behind that can’t just be deleted with a keystroke or a click.

My best ideas appear to come from three places: windshield therapy, the shower, or first thing in the morning.

So, why am I not writing? I have things to write. I have plenty to say. I even have an audience now—who looks forward to everything I write.

And a few who pick it apart.

Tell me I haven’t arrived.

Okay, I haven’t been on many drives. Granted, I had some brilliant ideas while flying from Houston to Minneapolis, and even more on the drive home from the Twin Cities. Yet, while driving, I am lucky to make notes in a file on my phone. No cohesion. Simply random thoughts. Yes, some are brilliant. Yes, some are shit.

Yet, my mind is in a truly different place when I look at them later. Immobile. With things to do. More on things to do in a minute.

And since that trip, I am not traveling. Nor driving. I will go. Tuesday. Possibly Monday, but defintely Tuesday.

Then, there are the mornings. As I have been examining my behavior, finding grace, and exploring my own shadows, I have taken advantage of the mornings being my best time. Yet, shadow work is… exhausting. And requires a nap. Occasionally a day drink, but I find I am drinking less and feeling more. A good thing, no?

Writers never refuse a drink, so time will tell.

So, what about the shower?

I am back on my press-up regimen. And salad and sadness™. And I find I am trending European. Conserving water. Showering less.

It’s not like I have a gland problem. I don’t stink.

And while I’m incredibly fond of a girl (or three), she doesn’t see me—nor smell me—enough for this to be the slightest concern.

Here I sit. Supporting bad habits. Social media again. And movies. And music.

Air Force One is better than I remembered. And I cannot get enough of Johannes Brahmes. And Kim Carnes.

Yet, all of these experiences have value. Even the distractions from the notifications on my iPhone. Even, if only to remind me I need to limit the distractions from the notifications on my iPhone.

Then, I recall another song from a dream (I cannot be the only one, can I?). “One,” by Three Dog Night. Actually a cover, from Harry Nilsson. Which version do you recall?

There are so many distractions. And I’m failing to get the work done. However, I am losing weight and getting my press-ups in daily. And I continue collecting notes. For the eulogy. For the novel. For the job application.

Yet, can they stay unorganized… forever?

Of course, they can. At least until I finish the Whitney Houston biopic.

I never really knew how to love. So it didn’t matter when I did fall in love... and it always failed for one reason or another. No one’s fault, really, for they’re all incredible girls. And I... I am still learning love.

And today, I am fully aware that I am ready to love.

What i'm listening to:

Last Night on Earth
Ava Max
Diamonds & Dancefloors

Reading has slowed as writing has increased. However, I did manage to consume a handful of tomes over the last months.

For posterity:

1. The Institute - Stephen King
2. Women - Charles Bukowski
3. Sex at Dawn: How We Mate, Why We Stray, and What It Means for Modern Relationships - Christopher Ryan & Cacilda Jetha
4. Love Songs of a Mad Scientist - Jerry Oltion
5. Hardwiring Happiness - Rick Hanson
6. The Way of a Seducer - Hans Comyn
7. Little by Little - Taj Arora
8. Fairy Tale - Stephen King
9. Stumbling on Happiness - Daniel Gilbert
10. Spontaneous - Aaron Starmer
11. Men Without Women - Haruki Murakami
12. Lessons in Chemistry - Bonnie Garmus
13. Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself - Dr. Joe Dispenza
14. Divergent - Veronica Roth