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

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.