dilletantism, romanticism, charlatanism
Have you ever met a girl? She’s dazzling. Gorgeous. Perhaps the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.
Then she opens her mouth.
And you want nothing to do with her?
Yeah, it’s kinda like that.
I don’t want to see you anymore.
Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace / I dream at night, I can only see your face. / I look around, but it's you I can't replace / I feel so cold, and I long for your embrace. / I keep crying baby, baby please.
What’s the matter with me?
Is it my imagination? Is it the pasta I had for dinner?
Or is what I’m feeling real?
Last night, I wasn’t able to fall asleep. I kept imagining you in the throes of passion. With someone else.
And why shouldn’t you? You’re so young. So beautiful. So desirable. Why can’t I express my desire?
Now you’re no longer thinking of me. No longer my girl. At least not last night. I have failed you.
I thought I was over… jealousy.
Yet, we seem(ed) to be entangled—somehow. You send a message when I think of you. I’ll wake up when you read mine.
Something is missing though. It’s not you, it’s me. I have failed your test(s).
I may never be ready when someone I genuinely like walks into my life. Lands on my hand. Like a butterfly.
Last night was rare. I can feel that you aren’t thinking of me.
Perhaps you are not my girl. Perhaps I failed to give you what you needed when you needed it…
Stop it.
Yes, love is fleeting. Yes, I adore her. Yes, there will be others. There are always other girls.
Ohh. If only we could have the pleasure… without the pain.
Every Breath You Take
We’re almost there, yet picture it…
You awaken, on today, the most wretched holiday of the year. Every clock is correct. It fixed itself. The car. The microwave. The stove. The designer clock over the kitchen sink.
All of them.
If that were the case, is it possible you wouldn’t even notice that everything is an hour earlier?
Hmmm.
Of course, right now, I am not a slave to my pocket watch. Joy of an obligation free life, I suppose.
Maybe, today will be my easiest transition yet.
I wonder…
Last week, I met someone (who bears a remarkable resemblence to Tom Brady) who shared his views on how we are slaves to clocks. To time.
And what is time anyway? A way to control us. Make sure we’re accounted for at certain times.
Perhaps he’s not wrong. It’s not just a way for so many people to successfully meet, hang out, hook up, have fun.
After all, we can’t spend every waking moment with someone we adore… can we?
Stumbled upon a meme this week:
I’ve reached that age where my brain goes from “you probably shouldn’t say that,” to “what the hell, let’s see what happens.”
To which my reply was, “For real, though.”
Except. It’s not.
At least not when it matters.
Yes, I have become a li’l braver, bolder… when it doesn’t really matter. Or when my blurting can get me in trouble.
And I can send these via text. Yes, my sweetie, I can blow your mind.
Yet, when I see you. And have the opportunity to tell you I want you.
I hesitate. And you know.
You know I am not ready. And you’re visibly disappointed. You don’t respond to my hints. Because you want me to say it. You want to hear it. Leave nothing to chance.
And I hesitate. Why? Am I protecting you? From me? From happiness? From my own failings and shortcomings? From the pure bliss I know we will share?
Why?
I know I shouldn’t not be making these decisions for you. I should trust you to dive into the chaos. The unknown. The bliss.
The pure bliss I know we will share.
Yet, I like you. I really, really like you. And I don’t want to screw this up. So, naturally, I hesitate… and screw it up.
I am not alone. Many other men struggle with this… so I know now my problem is not unique. And I am still that jackass. I make the decision for you. I am not worthy. I am not ready. You deserve better.
Why, oh why, can’t I make that decision AFTER we have our fun?
You want it. I want it.
I want you.
So, why, for Christ’s sake, don’t I act like it?
You even call me out. “I guess we’ve run out of things to say.”
But we haven’t. Can’t you hear me screaming how much I want you?
No, you can’t. Because I don’t say a word. I look into your eyes, with longing.
Like a jackass.
I cannot say a word. I don’t want to lose you.
Even though, through my silence—my shyness—I already have.
God damn it.
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.
Shame on the Moon
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...
My Obsession