Which Is a Pep Talk for Moving. Which Worked.

05/30/2008 6:56 AM – 7:26 AM

Well, first note that your lungs feel a lot better when you don’t add cream to your coffee, and as the condition of your lungs has a direct impact on your physiological well-being, you might consider not adding cream to your coffee. Plus, that would be one less thing to buy. Along with cigarettes. But one thing at a time. That which presses on your mind is the fact that you went to bed afraid last night.

It wasn’t thick or tough. It wasn’t panic. It only had a few fringes of anxiety. It was just a low-key, nagging fear. The fear arose when you got the email from Ben telling you that he had bought a house. They had a close date. They had a place for you. It was now real. The fear arose in part from sadness, but it was also just fear. You’re sad because you don’t like saying good-bye, and as much as you don’t like living in a city chock full o’ crazies, bums and bullies, you are familiar with your surroundings. This being the longest place you’ve lived in since you were eighteen. You become used to your surroundings. You may not be able to predict exactly what will happen, but you accumulate a set of probabilities. Moving to a new place means you have to reprogram your gut, and that takes time, and that’s a bit scary.

You’re also sad because, to a large extent, you like your job. You may not like the crazies, bums and bullies that form a large psychological part of your job (but a small portion of the actual interaction time), but you love your bosses and your co-workers and your building. You know it, and do love it. You don’t want to say good-bye. But you do have to say good-bye. Perhaps you will stay in contact with some of them, perhaps none. The fear arises from wondering if, perhaps, you are giving up something good but imperfectly fit for, once again, running to unknown but possible pastures. These new pastures may be an even worst fit than this place you are in now and that scares you. But that is always a fear when there is change and change is inevitable. You bite down. You bite down and taste and eat. Of course you’re scared, you’d be a fool not to be, but fear is not the determining factor. To get out of the city. To be in the country. To be with friends. – These are things you wanted before the fear and the fear doesn’t change that. You’ve wanted them, literally, for years. It is an adventure, lad. And what kind of life would you be living if your balls didn’t occasionally shrink from fear? Bah. Fear is sprinkles on the Sunday. You have considered the risks against the desires and the desires triumph. Yes, you’re a little scared, but the world is large, you are yet young and you haven’t even begun to crack the shell. Now, further up, boy. Further up and further in. Towards Narnia and the North.

Which Is Scattered. Again. But Uses the Word "Research" Several Times.

05/29/2008 6:34 AM – 7:08 AM

Perhaps the downside of silly dance pop is that you digest it so quickly: seven or eight plays and you’ve got the song down. Most of the ones that you love eventually show up in your consciousness again, demanding another few listens, but they do tend to end up at the flavorless stage of the bubblegum pretty quick.

The upside to the downside is that it means you get to go looking for new ones pretty damn quick. Research – the true obsession of nerds like me. I ran last night (it was two-and-a-half miles) and it hardly hurt at all. Of course, I did the “endurance” type running style as opposed to the “speed” type running style. Which basically means I shuffled like an arthritic old man instead of lifting my legs high like a spry young thing. It’s funny running towards pretty girls that run like the runners they are. I feel inclined to imitate their stride until I remember – “wait. That really hurts. Keep running like an old man. Then you can keep running. You’re thirty-two. They’re, like, twelve or something.”

The muscle aches from lifting weights two nights ago really didn’t show up until last night. I’d forgotten that there is a delay when you first start out. My arms hurt. And my boobs. Eighteen years of being bound by childship. Twelve years of being bound by money (and a small packet of certain, seemingly arbitrary moral rules). Then you hit thirty-one and you realize that you’ve had a pretty good run of figuring stuff out and it might be time to apply the data. Not that I’ll stop researching. But you figure out certain things that tend to invoke happiness and other things that tend to do the opposite. And a majority of things that could go either way. Sleep enough. Exercise. Write. Go to work. Eat well, but not too well. Be friendly. Research. These are pretty solid in my “happy inducing” camp. There are probably several other things that are slipping my age’d memory. But not really that many. And of happy things you say, “For the rest of my life.” And that is a very, very long time. Or not. But probably. And it’s better to assume it will be so, or you will be very poor, very quickly.

Which Is Scattered. But Briefly Mocks Vegans. Again.

05/28/2008 6:16 AM – 6:37 AM

And maybe those things you need are just trust, action, skill and practice. Maybe the rest follow. I like these longer days. I’m trying very hard to be the optimist and not think of the approaching first day of summer as depressing but as, instead, something to celebrate. Maybe with dancing to wonderful, silly music.

Yesterday was the first time I actually attempted to lift weights. It went well, all things considered. I only did two sets and it took a really long time, but now I’ve got the numbers and exercises worked out so the next time should go more smoothly. I’ve just got to figure out how to add daily crunches, hyperextensions and meditation to the mix and I’ll be good. Well, that and quit smoking. I know that I’ve just got to quit and say “no” to myself a lot, but that’s so much easier said than done. Ah, well, things go as they go. I’ll figure it out eventually. Chilly out, but in a good way. My muscles are sore. Running tonight. Two miles, I think. But I’ll need to check.

Moby is funny. He makes disco music (silly dance pop) and then mercilessly slanders it. He’s probably a vegan. But please, veganism is inherently self-defeating. I needent go on. Ooo! I like this song. It uses three different metaphors, none of them really fit together at all, but she just kind of jumps breathlessly from one to the other and then back again. And she has a British accent. Hot. My inherent lightness is more wise than my inherent darkness. Do-be-do-be-do. Life makes sense, we can learn this from observing, but how it makes sense is beyond our grasp. Unless we want to cheap out on the question. Then you have any number of options. Many ending in “ism.” I used to watch Disney films at the Corning library in a small room off from the hallway that had the bathrooms. There was a color to those films, a 70’s color that still strikes me as unfathomably beautiful. They all tended to be about animals dying or undergoing great suffering. I hate those stories, but the world that these stories took place in was amazing. It’s that post-Techni-Color color. It doesn’t really translate to TV. It can only be seen through film on a screen in the dark.

Which Starts with Questions of Cookies and Ends with Questions of Love. Sort of a Reverse Proust. Not That I've Read Proust.

05/27/2008 6:55 AM – 7:42 AM

And now what state am I in that I think home-made cookies are better tasting that store-bought ones? Unless the store-bought ones are expensive. Some habits of thought change some do not. Old proclivities that I thought quelled rise and then fall away, as if only to let me know that they remain.

But I do not think man a constant thing. At least men of my sort. It is as if we were constructed of fairly consistent boxes, but what those boxes contain changes from day to day or year to year. I find myself in the categorical position of Kant but modified. I’m not drawn to Kant. He was a bad writer, so thick as to be almost nothing more than a set of guts to be read into, a mere augury. But is that neither here nor there? And I ran last night for the first time in four days. I felt both the good effects of rest and the ill effects of ceasing the exercise for even that period of time. One can reach a conclusion by reason and force one to it by will, but the rewards must be emotional, reason counting nothing either pleasant or unpleasant.

I find my self desiring love again. The last case came and went without much comment. But I would deign that a matter of inaction on my part. It is one thing to play with a love as a pretty thought while one is alone, quite another thing to pursue and make it known to the world. Or even the object of one’s affection. But for now, I am content. Twenty-eight years of study and I still don’t know what the she that is She should be. The general survey of the pertinent text would leave one to hold: similarity of basic intelligence, similarity of basic world-view and SOP, and the ability to disagree without becoming vicious or disdainful. The last is one that we can work on, the first two a result of genetics and experience. But still there is that need to know that you do have to work on it. There is a girl I know who finds much wrong with the world and will speak at length about it. Never once have I heard her admit that the fault was her own, even for matters soon forgotten. I, self-important as I am, at least can see that the problem is often a matter of my own indifference or perspective. And I know a girl who sees much wrong, but finds it to most often be a result of her own inadequacies. That is inaccurate as well. The world often is as it is and we are often what we are. We must learn to accept this. The problem that arises is that love requires, yes, acceptance where differences exist, but also a similarity that allows for that trust which guides one to intimacy. I suppose that there have existed millions of perfectly good marriages since marriage began which didn’t require more than a cosmetic smudge of intimacy, but I haven’t been waiting twenty-eight years for that. At thirty-three Montaigne married. At that same age both Jesus and Alexander died. The hard questions that I began asking of love at seventeen, I still ask. Which comes first, the bird or the nest? Beloved movies aside, of what value are you? Should you bring peace or challenge? Do you pull up, down or not at all? Will you add strength to my life or merely add weight to it? What do you cost? Is there a point after which you will not arrive? How do you arrive? How is it that you leave? And how do I make you stay? But perhaps these questions are mere academic sophistry, asked not to gain knowledge but to stall for time. Yes, I put it on a pedestal, but everyone should have something up there, else we become crude and cheap things, our lives those nasty, brutish and short things of the pessimist’s imagination.

On Plate Licking

05/26/2008 8:41 AM – 9:03 AM

And the things you realize as pertaining to yourself sometimes catch you off-guard. I am, in the center of things, a shallow creature. Which is to say, prone to enjoy things that are of no importance and do not endure. Three weeks later and I’m still savoring insubstantial dance pop. Like I did when I was fourteen. And nineteen. And, secretly, twenty-five. Which is not to say that I haven’t delved into the deep things (and looked stunningly handsome as I did so), but the deep things, once seen (or unseen, rather) do not sustain. They are stale, low-fat, low-salt crackers.

Or perhaps even less. To stretch the allegory to beyond it’s breaking point, the deep things are below the things-as-they-are and as such can offer no nourishment. They’re not even the healthy, tasteless crackers that mothers buy when they’re feeling fat: they are merely the plate that the food sits on. “Aha!” says the clever one, “I have reached the actual substance of the thing! It is bland and empty! I will now commence with existential despair.” Well, you know, feel free. But no, actually. You just pushed the food out of the way and are now licking the plate. That fatty, salty, sugary cheap thing that you scorned so dramatically is the actual food.

So put the food back on the plate and eat, you sullen child. Of course it’s vanity! Searching through your burger and fries, exclaiming constantly, “Vanity! Vanity!” Arriving at a plate now empty (having flung your food contemptuously to the floor) you proclaim with your smart, important scowl, “All. Is. Vanitas.” Very good. Having emptied your plate, you arrive at an empty plate. Importantly. It might have done you better to eat your way to bottom and order another round, but, yes, you were very important-looking as you judged. I applaud your excellent performance piece. I will not, however, be voting for an NEA grant on your behalf. This fat little boy with glasses and a bad haircut sitting next to you at the counter, reading a comic book and tearing up at the mountain of troubles that Peter Parker has yet again to endure, I prefer his performance. True, he gave little thought to the food, yet when he did, he thought it very good and having reached an empty plate, as anyone who sits down at the counter will find they do, he was full. Well, he was after he had the peanut-butter Sunday. And another root beer. And he licked the plate too. He thought no one was watching, but I saw him. He’s definitely a fatty.

On the Philosophical Assumptions Underlying the Constitution of Spikelandia

05/25/2008 7:09 AM – 7:30 AM

And hopefully this won’t end up like yesterday – just going on and on and not finding a resolve. But maybe there is no resolve in following such emotions through. You can’t really do anything about politics. Everyone wants political freedom to be limited to their own perspective.

So. The first principles then, the First Principles of Spike, all without a generally recognized proof but containing personal warrant: 1) I exist, 2) Existence exists, 3) Other minds exist, 4) God exists, 5) God is good, 6) Life is good, 7) the primary activity of existence is pursuing happiness, 8) the first ethical commandment is “do no harm,” all other ethical concerns spring from this.

These cannot be tested or proved and holding things to be self-evident only works as a starting point for statements of intent. Which is fine. What then do I intend? I intend to establish a personal country with its own constitution and set of laws which do not change despite the machinations of political creatures that rule the Outerlands. The territories of this sovereign country encompass both the fields of Allegiance and Outlaw in varying degrees as what passes for law in the Outerlands fluctuates regularly. Let the laws we lay down in this interior constitution be few and rigorously followed. Do you want to do it? Will doing this cause harm to another mind? If the answer is “yes” to the first and “no” to the second, your ethical concerns are removed and you may proceed to the questions of personal utility. Can you do this? Will doing this interfere with any previously establish goals? If “yes” to the first and “no” to the second, proceed to the theological. Will this piss-off/make-sad God? If “no,” proceed to the legal. Is this contrary to the laws of the Outerlands? If “no,” commence, if “yes,” ask “can I get away with it?” If “yes,” commence. See, that didn’t end up like yesterday at all. It’s always better to be a rat pirate bastard than to try to convince people that their politics are just polite tyranny.

With Tummy Aches and Politics

05/23/2008 6:48 AM – 7:10 AM

And how long will it take for the tummy ache to leave? At what point do I actually go and see if there might perhaps be something that requires magic pills to fix it? Expensive magic pills. What would the Stoics do? Would they go to the hospital and accept the large debt as the inevitable or would they sit home and accept the annoying pain as inevitable, perhaps believing that it’ll clear it up on its own?

Another few days. Money is a dear commodity. As Willow said: “they cherish their most prized possessions: their possessions.” Lovely day out. Cloudy but not dark. A little chilly but not out and out cold. Apparently the crazy/bum/bully that harassed Stephen in front of the apartment a few weeks ago was at it again this morning – yelling at someone that wouldn’t fulfill his demand, “Just do it! I’m not a bum! I’m not a bum!” Crazy bums are crazy. And this one’s a bully too. Why can’t we carry tranquilizer guns? Because Big Mother loves us more than we ever could. I could just punch him in the lip but then he could sue and I don’t think God likes it when we disappear people.

But that is not the better thoughts that wake us up and embiggen us to make real the day. That my logic does not command is well documented. That my emotion does not convince is likewise noted. But my stubborn nature and quietly raised left eyebrow has been shown to anger on occasion. That my speech is slow unless silly and my thoughts muddled unless re-rewritten does not always belie a mind devoid of much-reasoned opinion. Ah, well, neither red nor blue yet have the camps at ready. Though when which-ever side actually builds them, I’m sure that the other will sight it as a reason for their revolution. And then, when empowered, promptly adopt them for their own purposes. Either way, I’m pretty sure they’d have a nice warm cot waiting for me. But I am prone to delusions of grandeur. Whether it is fear or love that is sighted, power is the power to put people in camps. But it has always been that way and the fall of Rome wasn’t felt by those that lived there, just the historians five-hundred years later. Whether the world is waxing or waning, we must wait until we’ve long been dead to discover – lovers will still love, those that morn with still morn, those that are happy will still be happy and those with a tummy ache will still wonder when the appropriate time to see the doctor is.

On Desiring. And Needing to Poo.

05/22/2008 6:47 AM – 7:12 AM

Oy. I’ve had stomach/poop pains since yesterday afternoon. I’ve discovered that if I manage to poop, the pain goes away for a while. Or if I’m running, but that doesn’t last as long. I haven’t quit smoking yet. I will soon. I’m listening to silly dance pop almost exclusively. My mood is noticeably better. Though I did have another half-asleep anxiety incident this morning. It’s never when I’m fully awake or completely asleep. But I went back to sleep and it was gone by the time I got up.

For the first time in a long while, I had the inkling of longing this morning. It’s one of those early summer, chilly, rainy days and for some reason, I felt a twinge of longing for Cape Cod. Longing is oddly not depressing. And it’s definitely not fearful. It’s somewhat pleasant. It makes me want and wanting gives me something to do here in this life. I want those subtle emotions back. I don’t want the depression. I don’t want the panic. I want to be alive and human and here, a real boy. “Only one flight leads to the bull’s-eye: a thousand can miss it.” But it is one thing to aim for the bull’s-eye, another thing to find it in the first place.

I don’t think they're right about the extinguishing of desire, unless “extinguishing of desire” is another one of those religious code-phrases for something other than what it says. "I couldn't be a part of any revolution that wouldn't let me dance." But I’ve said that before. Why do I return to things? Because I always find objections and having sifted the objections, I return to the premise to see if it still stands. Or maybe I'm just baiting. There are different kinds of desire, as there are different types of emotion. An abiding desire, a desire that can always be called on, even if sometimes it is only an echo of itself, that is a desire to follow. The desire of the moment, that cries out loudly (buy the godamn bag of Doritos!), it is somewhat painful to deny this desire, but a sleep or two later and it dissipates. The desire that does not dissipate, no matter how many sleeps, that is a desire to take seriously. Not that you shouldn’t buy that bag of Doritos now and then. Probably not when you’ve got the anti-poops though. What desires remain in me that have lasted the years? And of those, which are not symbols for something else, but things-in-themselves? And that is a project to set for the day.

On Montaigne's Skin

05/21/2008 6:18 AM – 6:40 AM

And waking up this morning, it is cloudy and I feel good. And this matters, and this matters not in the least. I’m finally reading the “Essays” of Montaigne. This morning I read the one “On Sadness.” It’s on both deep sadness and deep joy and he gives examples of how both have killed people. He then says, “Violent emotions like these have little hold on me. By nature my sense of feeling has a hard skin, which I daily toughen and thicken by arguments.”

And yet few would say, on reading the “Essays” that Montaigne was a man devoid of warmth. Perhaps what I am experiencing at this point is just the passing of the passions and a learning of the deeper paths of contentment and doing. I would say that I definitely could use a little thickening of the skin. St. Ayn, a thick skin if ever there was one, was secretly prone to acts of private silliness – dancing to her “tiddily-wink” music, waving the satin streamers that her husband had bought her for her birthday. Silliness, a forgiving humor, and deep affection that while it doesn’t explode can be depended upon – these are good emotion to cultivate.

Emotions that overwhelm are for people whose bodies produce an ungodly amount of hormones – excellent for sending into battle and making babies, but not very good for much else, certainly not planning a campaign or raising children. The people that write “Essays” or build “Falling Water,” people that do beautiful work that takes a long time, past the point of excitement and into sustained attention, focused until actual completion is achieved– these are people that make a 7^th generation difference. Being alive and apprehending the job that one wishes to do and then engaging in the unexciting, daily tasks that are required of completing something difficult and complex and good – this is an emotion that effects. I am not a mystic. God does not speak to me in visions or voices. He does not prove his existence, no matter how deeply I feel the need. I have faith in my chair. Let God then be like my chair, only remarked upon when something unexpected occurs. To attempt to capture the nature of God is to attempt to prove the existence of other minds, better leave it to the mystics. In the sane, it is accomplished by a faith that turns invisible, like cobwebs in twilight, but it remains part and parcel of being human nonetheless.

Of Question and Plume

05/19/2008 5:57 AM – 6:36 AM

And then I’m so damn afraid. I don’t know what is right anymore. I don’t know what’s true. I don’t know what’s worth the risk. I’m the servant that buried his coins, so scared of the wrath of the master that lent them. What, in the end, is worth the risk? What is that thing that’s worth dying for? What’s worth risking damnation? What can stand up to a lifetime of scrutiny?

I knew once what was worth the risk – my white plume. But now I can’t say that it matters as it once did. Well, it matters in moments when I feel strong and able. It matters when I’ve had a long, good run. It matters when I’ve written a few words that I think are true, that I actually believe. I don’t know what I believe anymore. Everything is in flux, nothing is solid. It feels as if it’s all just guessing without any solid evidence, just whispers of things that might or might not be the case, of no greater importance than celebrity gossip. Where is my spark? Where is that thing that withstands the tumults of existing as a conscious creature?

There has to be a point. There has to. The universe is too lazy to make a living thing that thinks. There is no cosmic need for me to be here, so I must have some reason that has nothing to do with a universal necessity. Something cannot come from nothing. Life cannot come from non-life. Contemplation cannot arise from the unthinking. To be the creature that I am, aware of myself and my death – I must exist for a purpose. In the past, I thought my reason reliable, but pushed far enough in any direction and you realize how much it is set in void. So faith, we must assume, but what faith? And what flavor of that faith? And how much dedication to that flavor? There must be a map. Existence does not flicker in a way that we can perceive, no matter what the swami screeches as he stretches out his hand to beg. The Matrix of reality cannot be escaped, only the constructs of man. And perhaps that is a better interpretation of that movie. Meta-Matrix speculation is fun but in the end it’s just a rather hackneyed fantasy story. How then should we live? And fourteen year later, I’m not sure I’m any closer than I was at the beginning of the questions. But I asked them. By God, I’ve asked them. I guess my plume is still there.

In Which the Text for Today's Sermon is Taken from Psalm 10:17&18, if You Wish to Follow Along

05/17/2008 7:47 AM – 9:18 AM

This morning I was reading Psalm 10 and the first, like 14 out of 18 verses is this totally clichéd, hackney description of a villain. I was all like, God, Dude, this has that cool Hebraic poetry thing going on, but, really, the subject and carry-through is crap. Then I got to verse 17, the second to last.

It goes thusly (in the NKJ): “Lord, you have heard the desire of the humble; you will prepare their heart; you will cause your ear to hear.” Now the reason that this stuck out is because it follows this rather long, scenery-chewing description of a black-hatted bad guy, but I like the verse because it is somewhat mysterious. “You have heard the desire of the humble,” – that’s cool to me because it is “desire” that is used, not “prayer.” “You will prepare their heart,” – and that’s just plain freaking mysterious. How? For what? “You will cause your ear to hear,” – I know, I know, it’s poetry. It’s an exaggerated description of a fairly normal occurrence, but it’s still a striking image – God causing his own ear to hear.

The thing about my panic attacks is that they made me face the emotion that my viewpoint of utter helplessness put me in. Helplessness is not a good position for a creature with a brain to be put in – from rats to humans – they’ve done experiments – repeatable experiments – when you’ve learned that nothing you do matters, you don’t do anything to avoid shocks even if the situation has drastically changed – like how giant elephants can be held in place by a small rope that they could easily snap. After years of being chained with big effing chains, they learn that if they can feel that pressure on their leg, nothing they can do will free them. They’ve learned helplessness. And that’s actually the psychological term for it: “learned helplessness.” You can look it up. They did really mean things to doggies. To which doggies I am grateful. Run thou amidst the Elysian fields, sweet Fido.

Anyway, for someone that is innately a “do-er,” a stoic worldview is actually wise. They act for the feeling of being in action – the outcome – meh – sprinkles on the ice cream. That’s a wise place to be in. For someone who is more outcome driven (like me), the end result is more important than the mere path taken. If killing pagan babies was an absolutely-God-told-me-in-person-and-left-me-this-signed-document way of getting into heaven, well, strap on the pipe bombs and point me towards the nearest day-care. Luckily for the world at large and pagan babies at near, I’m also a skeptic. God would have to tell me in person and leave me this signed document and even then I’d want a personal tour of this “heaven” that lets in people that blow up babies. One of those unscheduled, unsupervised, hidden-camera, search-the-back-rooms tours. I do however tend also to require this of commands such as “you’ve just got to be kind.” So I’m not such a favorite of the blow-shit-up pastors or the be-nice-to-crazies-bums-and-bullies crowd either. I live here in a Serious Story on Serious Earth (that’s a comic book reference for those that didn’t get it) and I won’t be fooled again (that’s a… well, really, you should know that reference. Seriously).

God seems to like the do-ers. They are, statistically, more happy, a lot more happy, than ruminators. The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong nor justice to the righteous nor riches to the hard-working nor honor to the wise – the person that noticed this was no doubt seriously depressed. But the runner that races because he loves to race. And then wins. He’s got the whole kit and caboodle. Yes, there’s something great to be said about the stoic view, but, goddamit, babies, outcomes matter too! (that was a horribly mis-contexed Vonnegut reference; in fact, its message is almost opposite the original) What would it profit a man if he should enjoy his whole life and lose his soul? What would it cost a man if he dutifully hated his whole life and had no soul? How cool would it be if he enjoyed his whole life and got to go to Narnia after? Grr. Arg. (Buffy reference) These questions matter. These questions blow. The black-hatted man is myself. And his victim is me.

And hope, when acted upon produces faith and faith calls forth in that calm, quiet voice that stills the troubled waters. So.

Lord, you have heard the desire of the humble; you will prepare their heart; you will cause your ear to hear and do justice to the fatherless victim that the black-hatted man may oppress him no more.

So, whatever humble is, make me that.

(Implied Proposition) Thursdayish

05/15/2008 6:38 AM – 7:03 AM

Whoop. Up and away. I ran last night. I do this quite a bit of late. Four times a week to be exact. For the last five weeks. Sweet. But I don’t seem to be losing any of my tummy. But I do feel better in everyday life. Pretty sky out my window. A little chilly, but not bad.

My writing has slowed down considerably of late. Except for the instants. I’m surprisingly dedicated to them. Ya’ll get to see like, one out of five. Oooo, warmy colors on the houses, clouds parting. I’m slowly prepping myself for the move. Starting to say goodbye without saying any words yet. Happiness becomes a matter of character in its predictable rhythms, and less a matter of personality. But a pleasant personality still works for many situations. You hold on for the first part of the drop and then throw your hands in the air and whoop as you near the upward turn.

Moving, the half-life of romance is six months. The half-life of the honeymoon state is eighteen. It takes on average, eleven weeks for a habit of exercise to become normal. So I’ve got six and a half to go. And sometime soon (soon being very difficult to define), I’ll have to give up the smokes and figure out how not to think about them all the time. Oooo, cramp in my left pointer finger. Weird. Normalcy is this, delight in small things, the absence of anxiety, working, looking for beauty, reifying the action of God in these. We are silly and impossible creatures. What is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou visitests him? Thou is a good word. So is art. Visitests is more problematic but still pretty in a clunky sort of way. Finding delight in the ordinary and adventure in the strange, that’s a goal. Would a life coach approve? Well, yeah, probably. Existence is so weird. Wisdom is found in cliché, knowledge in the boringly ordinary, and understanding, well, I’m still working on that. So be it, though. Because it already is. That dude does not flip his wrists around when he runs. Like I do. But, you know, genetically, I’m like, half gay. I should be more neat and clean. And have a loofa. And now the shadows on the houses are crisp with the cooler, brighter daylight. Hands up, we’re approaching the turn. Whoop. Whoop, whoop, whoop.

Which Is Praying But Less Cheesy Because It's Funny and I Use the F-word

05/14/2008 5:57 AM – 6:20 AM

Okay, God, well, let’s try this. Me. Talking to you. Forgive the non-cap’s of your pronouns; I’ve got a cigarette in one hand. And something in me hates earnestness, because I can see how it leads to believing in ridiculous things. I don’t want to see miracle cures in every slick shiny that comes along.

I was reading the Psalms this morning, deriding the constant sighting of enemies, because there are crazies, drunks and bullies in the world, but actual enemies of me seem to be in short supply. Thank you. But then I realized that I do have enemies. They spring from myself. I am afraid of things. I’m afraid of my fear. It’s just one tiny little fucking switch, the switch that says: “Death is to be feared/death is not to be feared.” And I have trouble getting it to sit back into the “not feared” position. We have to give up on the things that we can’t do. But what can’t I do? Maybe I can’t actually write. Maybe my stories will always come out weird and unpublishable. I’m okay with that at the moment, but in the harsh light of an Under the Sun day or the heavy darkness of unasleep night, will I be?

I like this song. “Under the Bridge” feels like a hymn actually. I never want to be afraid again. I want to look forward to death to see what Narnia looks like, but I want to love being here too. I had this series of thoughts yesterday. One of the kids at work was having some sort of problem with her boy and I, as is my tendency, had only a snarky little comment to make about “that’s why I don’t have one.” But then I had this progression of thoughts, because while, yes, that actually is part of it, the other part is that now that I’m of marrying age, I’m not looking for just some girlfriend (wait, was I ever?), I’m looking for a wife, and to find a wife means that I have committed myself to a “til death” thing because I actually take marriage seriously, but committing myself to a “til death” thing means that I accept the fact that I’m going to die and I am not yet ready to accept that. Now, really, this was originally just kind of flashy dark humor, but there is some truth in it. I know that I’m going to die and, right at this moment, I’m fine with that. Weird, I actually am. It’s not just me saying it to make me feel better. Anyway, that thought process wasn’t there before except as a joke, but, sometimes, it is now. Like, obviously. Somehow the Spike/Happiness Equation doesn’t seem to work without you. So, Oh God of the Psalms, be my shield. Surround me with your favor to protect me from my enemies, which most of the time, are me. Umm, Amen.

Which after Travails Arrives at 8

05/13/2008 7:18 AM – 8:02 AM

I think it’s this that my objective in this whole thing is simply to learn to trust God and the universe he’s birthed us into. It is looking down through the layers of crazies, bums and bullies and seeing that the underlying nature of the whole is good. I’ve been struck over the past year or so by a number of references to the peace of the old. The fearlessness of the ones that make it that far. Which is not always the case, but so beautiful when it is.

I'm nervous about messing it up, about this being my only shot at it. If my hope were a lie, which most of the time I do not believe it is, I would still have the fact that it takes some of the pressure off this game of living. There is that. We are here to learn and delight. We learn to make things with blocks and play well with others and delight in these tasks. And as I must learn to trust God for the preservation of my soul, I must learn to trust his universe to follow his unseen orchestration. This is hard.

I am a skeptic by nature. But I am also a mystic. I am an idealist and a realist. The struggle rarely reaches the full-on pitch of battle but the tension remains. I’d like to think that this keeps me honest while retaining my sometimes naive optimism. But knowing that money does not buy happiness has left me at times with a shitty work ethic and a mountain of debt and knowing that good grades do not indicate any guarantee of understanding has left me with a long string of bad grades. Knowing the underlying emptiness of earnest pursuit has often left me with nothing but a self-satisfied sneer and a destitution of warmth. I know that the pursuit is the thing. But when honestly examined, what is worth pursuit? What when apprehended satisfies? Not my mother’s God – that guy is seriously bipolar. Not the Zen God – he’s cold and doesn’t dance. Not this little savings in the bank – it’ll be gone very quickly. Not the knowing of unknowing – it doesn’t really teach you anything. Not the prettiest girl – you can’t really talk to her. Not the girl that you can always talk to – she's usually taken and never seems to be able talk to her boyfriends. Not writing a novel – it’s not really good enough to be published. Not getting a really, really good performance review – a large part of that is being good to the boss. Not getting a really, really good grade – it’s stuff you knew before you took the class. Not getting away with something that you shouldn’t have – it severs social connections you'll probably wish you'd kept. Not finding the most honest perspective – it’s not really anymore helpful than the rest. Not knowing thyself – thyself will cease to be relevant. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. One generation goes, another generation comes and the universe offers no comment. Where is the spark? Where is the beauty? Where is that one true thing? If only one could only know with certainty what actions store up treasures in heaven and could peek in at the account statement from time to time.

But with all this horseshit lying around, there has to be a pony in here somewhere. My hope and my pride. My white plume. And then you see, I am content for this round and I’ve won more rounds of late than I’ve lost. And having done so, we can sigh, nod and say, “fuck it, Dude. Let’s go bowling.” Which, really, is the answer to everything. Yes. The Dude wins. My condolences, Mr. Lebowski, the Dude wins. Let your garments always be white, let your hair lack no oil and mark it 8, Dude. By all means, mark it 8.

Mostly About "Lost"

05/09/2008 6:33 AM – 7:01 AM

The sky is light, unclouded save for a few tufts that add dimension to the picture. I feel good. I was obsessed with Lost all night. I fell asleep thinking about it. I woke up thinking about it. This makes me unaccountably happy. Why should this show be the one which lights me up?

Happy people have packed schedules. They fill their time with activities which fully (or nearly fully) engage them. Their off-work time is filled with work. This astounds me. But then I can see that I actually rarely vegged out unless it was both an opportunity to escape and a way of raising my finger to authority. When there is no authority telling me that I must not watch TV, I rarely watch TV. Except for Lost. And a handful of other "myth" shows that aren’t currently on (X-Files, Twin Peaks, Northern Exposure, etc). Odd thing about video games, I realized that they aren’t passive leisure pursuits. They actually do engage you in flow. The only thing is, when I finish playing, I don’t feel as if I’ve accomplished anything. Well, if I play them alone. Well, the majority of the time that I play them alone. Every once in a great while, playing video games alone is exactly what I wanted.

That dude that just rode by on his bike was leaning back against the sissy bar. Can you do that? What else is it that I can do to fill my time with meaning? How do you really live in living? I know that I should sleep more. Be asleep by 9 so I can wake up by 5. But I get distracted. And Lost is on till 11 now. Stupid competition. But I like CSI and Supernatural and the NBC comedies too. Not to the extent that I like Lost, but there you are. How is it that Lost ceases to be apathetic entertainment for me? 4 years of dedicated watching play into it, no doubt. Is it the whole “existence is a mystery” aspect? Just the damn good mystery aspect? The socializing “water-cooler/fan-blog” aspect? Maybe it’s as simple as being a few years dedicated to a well done thing. Ha. Like being married. Maybe that’s what marriage is about – the strange intrigue of being dedicated to a good thing for a long time. But it’s full time, not just one hour a week. But it’s got boobs. But it gets stupidly cranky. But it hugs. But it makes you do chores that don’t really need doing. But it smiles with its eyes. But it talks to you when talking doesn’t do any good. But it talks to you. Existence is weird.

On Moving and Feeling, Mostly

05/07/2008 6:02 AM – 6:26 AM

Awake and old as I am, I’m young and will remain so. Happy people fill their time. They have packed schedules. I bought new shoes from Bean’s yesterday. They should arrive next week. I bought Mom a Mother’s Day gift from Amazon. It should also arrive next week. Poop.

I didn’t lift yesterday, but I did call Phil and drop off the rent checks for June and July. He said he’ll probably start showing the place in mid-June, so I want to have as much crap as I can moved out by then. I’m not connecting to my writing lately. Probably because I’m not really writing. And also the numbness in my emotions since the panic attacks, it doesn’t feel as if I’m for real connecting to anything. Though the numbness is growing less. Little by little, less. I’m forced to consider what actually works to make me happy. That’s what the whole obsession with happiness is about. I used to have my dreams of the future, but the future is now. I used to have God to rely on, now I feel far apart from him. I don’t want to be. I want that assurance that everything will be alright. That there is a plan in all of this. That I’ll end up doing what I was meant to do. That I’ll be happy and joyous and exuberant. I don’t feel in love that much lately. Odd how fast that goes away.

Before the panic attacks, the idea of going to Ithaca would have been thrilling – a new place! In the country! New stuff to see and do! In the country! Now, I’m wondering how long it will take me to find a job and how much of the money that I’ve saved will be spent in moving and setting up again. I’ll miss my job. I’ll miss my bosses. I’ll miss the building. I’ll miss the walk to work. I’ll be the new kid again instead of the old hand. I’ve gotten used to this life in Buffalo, as much as I don’t like living in a dirty little city, chock full of bums and thieves and bullies. It feels as if I’ve fallen in love with the ugly mean girl because she’s the only one that would sleep with me. Heehee… This coffee is weak. I’ll mix it stronger tonight. What was it that I used to love about moving? I was anxious to get out and prove that They were wrong about everything, that I was going to be a writer, if only I had a chance. I’ve had the chance and now I wonder if I picked the wrong thing. I am self-motivating now, I guess, but how do I motivate myself to write when I don’t really feel like I was destined for this, that “destined” is a crap word anyway? But it’s not enough for me to just read and watch TV and get drunk anymore. I have to think of myself as something. I have to make something noteworthy of whatever it is that I am. And bragging rights is a part of it, but there is that need to know in myself that I can do it, that I can be interesting. Goddamn it, there are still emu farms to found! Heehee… It’s the excitement that I miss, the sense that “if I can only do this, then this will happen and then this will happen and then I will be happy,” but I know that happy is found where you are, crafted from the sludge of normalcy. Oddly, I feel kinda happy right now.

With a Cocktail Recipe and Too Many Swears

05/04/2008 6:50 AM – 7:12 AM

Okay. This. This would still feel dumb. Back. Back where you’re from. Get up then and write. Do I want to? No. Fuck this. I want to be doing something. Possibly the prom queen. Not that I had a prom. Grr. Arg. This is just what it is. It’s been cloudy the last two days. And I’ve liked it. I mentally narrated my actions in a noir voice-over. Boo-yah, motherfucker.

Up at five-thirty and read a book about happiness. Drank good coffee with lots of cream and lots of sugar. Loaded a bunch of old songs onto the lap-top and I’m listening to them now. Some are born happy. Some achieve happiness. Some have happiness thrust upon them. Now what the thing is is life and life more abundantly. They never got what that meant – the Fundies and the Vegans. A life of censorship is no life at all. A life of discretion after burning your fingers attempting to figure it out for yourself – that’ll do, piggy, that’ll do. Happiness sometimes drafts in the wings of anger, sometimes on the tips of a lecherous smile. We don’t get that it’s hard to fit happiness into the box of virtue or that a life devoid of virtue is seldom happy. That fucking middle way all over again. But that middle varies from person to person. Blow.

You wake up. You wake up and seize what there is of the day. A Sour-Mash Lemonade: 1 part bourbon, 3 parts water, lemonade mix to taste. Shake till mix is dissolved. Add ice – 1 large cube per 4 oz of liquid. Shake till ice is mostly melted. Serve in Old Fashion glass. Drink and enjoy. Repeat as necessary. Watching a Pixar movie will add to the experience. Long run today. 2.33 miles. When will I take it? Soon. I run tomorrow night as well, better to let the body heal by running this morning. Wake up. Wake up, oh soul of mine. Open your eyes to the PI walking the rainy streets, the surfer the sunny beaches. The Dude abiding over, in, through all and all. We are the matter of stars, looking back at our parents to let them know that they exist. You exist. To be here. To be the biggest sap they know – this is exuberance. We run the road up. We run it back again. Small creature, where is your God now? Where he always has been. Inherent in the proposition. I am 4. I am 12. I am 18. I am 24. I am 32. I am 64. I am. I was. I will yet be. The day is just begun. So fuck it, we’re bowling. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.