Nostalgia…Meet Serendipity Let’s Hang.

It feels like it was just yesterday. Maybe because it was just last year. But pressing play on Colin Hay’s Long Way Home was all it took. I almost turned on the fireplace and made an English muffin and a cup of coffee. It would have been more than Déjà vu. It would have been a time machine. I feel it in a place somewhere between my lungs and my heart. It was nostalgia. It was serendipity. It was pity for my lost years and hope for my years that I have left. It was optimism in the moment and thankfulness for what I hold so near to my soul and it compelled me to write.

Fortunately, I call myself a writer, so this will make appropriate the mystery of this sense of morning melancholy that would perhaps bring me into a flow state. If not for only a brief moment.

The holidays are upon us and the feelings I grasp to capture and put in a bottle become far more frequent during this time of year. Maybe it is the crisp air. It could be the perpetual darkness the shut down my vision like a fog so that I cannot allow my mind to see to far. Only grounding me int h=the present like an isolation chamber or sensory deprivation tank. Whatever it is I like it.

I want to live in it, this moment forever. I want to be in touch with my present in a never-ending loop with only my actions to break up the pattern and enjoy that which is in front of me and now want for what imagine could be better if only I possessed it.

If only I could be somewhere else. Yeah, that would make it even better. Like being on vacation and seeing a beautiful landscape and darting into the nearest bar for a drink to hold. Yes that would be the cherry on top. Only to find out that the minute you complete preparations for the moment it has passed. Never to be captured.

Could I have just settled for oxygen instead of spirits?

Fortunately, I do not drink anymore. Not that I quit, I just did not continue. I always imagined that if I could stop drinking that then I would be able to enjoy more of these landscapes. Now that I don’t partake, it is no different. I was quite the party animal in my younger years. I often thought then that if I stopped these unspoken habits that I would be able to be present and feel more often this very same moment more often. This too was not was I was missing.

Is it that I needed to plant seeds of the moment so that I could live them again in the future? Like little love notes to myself to remind me that life is beautiful if only I was to stop looking here. Here being the future when I open the note and here also being the moment I wrote the note to myself long ago.

Even as it sits in front of me like a fire-breathing dragon panting hot air on my cheek and the sound vibrating in my skull, and my eyes adjusting to the breaking dawn, I am still looking upstairs to the aspirin in the medicine cabinet. Thinking to myself if only I did not have this mild soreness from yesterdays run. Yet I know that if I get up from this place I would return to a room that has been changed.

The furniture would cast a shadow in two directions. One from the fire and one from the fire of the morning sun. My heart rate would be elevated, and my skin would be flush from the quick detour.

I would re-enter this room only to find that this life was not the one that I had hoped. THe sense of presence in the moment would be like a beautiful butterfly that floats away as you reach for your camera. The snapshot would never exist.
LIke that special song before sunset. The very same couch next to the unlit fireplace. Pressing play and lighting a match. Watching the room fill with light and writing frantically as if it is about to disappear. That I was doing this very same thing one year ago to the day and by simply recreating the moment I could feel this way. Only one thing is missing.


Who Have I Been?

I need a fix cause I’m going down. The first lyrics of the Beatles Anthology Album. Things don’t happen on accident. There is a network if unseen synapses that bind the universe into one massive web. What touches the north will vibrate the south. The still moments that the spider waits for movement are the moments reserved for strategies. A time to collect the energy necessary for an effective response regardless where on the web the prey lies.

I too have been building a web but if you were to look at it through the light of the morning sun you would find that the pattern is off. Although there would be connections and perhaps every so often symmetry this would not be the web photographers would love to capture after a light drizzle.

Give the spider a drop of lysergic acid D and the web would appear delusional. That is me.

Who have I been.

I have no one to hold me accountable for the structure of my web. So long as the spider capture the fly and wraps it than the web is effective.

My web has been effective. Effective just enough not to starve. It is because I rise in the morning before dawn and go through the motions of connecting the lines and appear to be busy. So long as I produce the strands of adhesive shit across the tree line there will be fortunate events that occur.

I have been, for too long allowing my work to be just that. Dull and dumb, faded and forgettable.

Who was I and who did I become?

I keep log of the seasons of my life that can be analyzed and restated to reveal one truth. It was in the times of cleanliness that my web was most beautiful. It was a time in which I had faith in the potential of what my efforts could be.

I would think and believe in dreams that only a mad man or obsessed genius could fathom. Yet, here I sit a sad and broken Humpty Dumpty alone in the silence of the struggle that can only be mine. To declare my weakness would be a decree of failure and not one of a lesson for success. The story cannot be told in the present. It can only be well documented. And so therein lies my epiphanies.

I will make an attempt. On this very day I will attempt to discover who I have been. Masked and concealed behind the vail of a shadow so powerful and secret that only the angels and demons can converse over their true impact on my potential.

I can no longer deny that my pursuit of a more permanent flow state has been watered down and medicated to the point of obfuscation. Blind to that which has been right under my nose only to pass through my lips in an attempt to hide the truth.

The truth that I am powerless against the force that draws me towards great things. No matter how hard I try to negotiate with the gods of reason there is no more room for compromise. I cannot give into my demise so willingly and so indefinitely inevitable.

When the spider agrees to the dose he cannot predict in the moment how long it will last and if he will meet hit angels or confront his demons. He must sit patiently and wait for them to appear in the forms that only the gods can reveal. the gods and time.

Give it time.

Just this one day.

Allow the seconds to pass and merge into minutes. Allow the minutes to melt into hours and then the sun will set and you will know what you are. The moment of defeat or victory over the unseen forces that tear at you perhaps only pull on the delicate strands in the morning.

Just wait.

Allow the universe to reveal the natural beauty of the sunlight that you have been avoiding for nearly 20 years. Covered in sheets and shelters so that the truth cannot be seen. Afraid of what might be if I actually faced myself in the mirror. Naked and alone.

Just be.

Crouch in the center of the web. Allow the warmth of the star to cover you soft brown hair. Feel the breeze pass through the opalescent creations. The heart of the sun and the heart of the spider beat in a rhythm. The universe will help you find your weakness and allow you to build on your strengths. If by faith alone.

Be patient and be silent.

I am not who I was. I am not who I will be.

I am.

Is the World Too Big or Am I Too Small?

I have hit backspace on this writing 3 times because it is hard to describe what I am trying to describe.

Sometimes when I am traveling and I see a shopping center from a slightly elevated perspective I have a rush of emotions that tap into each one of the business in the complex. This feeling goes something like this.

Wow look at all of these individual efforts to stake their claim in the free world. There is an owner behind that billboard. A man or a woman who wakes up early and worries about how they will get customers into their hole in the wall restaurant. There is a vacuum repair shop who comes in on their terms and perhaps does not need the income this store produces. How could they. They are never open. There is a woman trying to “Crush it” in the woman’s business world as a clothing reseller but displaying a few select blouses in the window. Yet right next to her window is the water store with a faded poster in the window for a Chinese dance company tour that has come and gone over a year ago.

I become melancholy over the realization that this world is crowded with so many people trying to make it in their own way. Some have big goals and some have no goals at all other than to keep their small local business open long enough to enjoy their weekends for the rest of their lives. Not that they are hoping to pass along an empire built on cigarettes and hookah pipes adorned with Bob Marley t-shirts on a half empty rack accented by a worn out cardboard sign with the words sale hand written and taped to the end post. As if somehow this will be the thing that will finally get rid of this shit.

Am I insane to be tortured by the sense that I am so small in this world and that because of my size I should be intimidated by its size and therefore rendering my potential to a fate of mediocrity regardless of how hard I try.

I mean. Look at me. I am an almost 45 year old man with the mind that can only be compared to an octopus on LSD. I got hands and arms flying in multiple directions trying to grasp that which cannot be categorized in an effort to find my storefront of life. Tha at some point I will come the that “aha” mount that will be the result of my speaking out and someone listening. Then paying for me to say some more. Or that I would create something with my hands and that some one would ask if I have more. I suppose Theron lies my fear. That when someone enters the store of my creations that one would look at the random items along a series of shelves and they would ask if I have something else and not more of the same.

This would mean that the goods that I felt were worthy of putting on display were actually of no worth to anyone but myself. That Some how I was not tending to a store but that I was a docent at a Meuse university of random acts and creations of a renaissance man with now clear direction. That I was holding open a gallery for people to come in, look , be stricken with awe or perhaps mild curiosity and then leave.

Yeah, this worries me greatly. I spend a tremendous amount of time learning and hone in my ability to understand social media, sales, networking and content creation yet I have nothing to show for it.

A bank account that with one adversity or tragedy would have me on the side of the freeway twirling a sign for that very same store owner selling hookah pipes and cigarettes.

I push forward with such tenacity and force that if only someone in the corporate world would look at this in awe and find a place for me to clock in and clock out in a trade for the security free of worry and toil. The variety of my routine would in many ways defy the groundhog day theory and yet looks very similar to the yesterday.

I wake, I meditate from the porcelain throne for a few minutes as I stumble through a few social media channels then make my way to a couch with a cup of coffee and a laptop. The the direction of the day is building upon the next couple of moves I make. Do I end up falling back asleep? Do I dump my thoughts into text awaiting a glimpse into flow? Or do I allow YouTube to carry me away into an abyss of videos on motivation that by their next suggested video will land me up on Dr. Pimple Poppers Greatest pops of 2014? Next thing I know 2 hours have passed and I still don’t have shit to show for my early morning purpose.

I believe I get this way because I have, since a very young age, always felt as if I am going to do great things and will one day be rich and famous. This feeling carried on from childhood until about my mid thirties. The theme shifted to, being “Under the radar.” That for some reason I am worthy of fame and fortune but only when my time is right. That the universe is holding back from giving me access to abundance because I am not mature or responsible enough to no blow it all on hookers and blow and end up dead on a Las Vegas hotel room floor.

The Vacation of The Mind

Sitting here at six thirty a.m., long before anyone in the vacation rental rises, I gaze across the recently saturated landscape of golf course grass. The sun lifts in haste and evaporates the dew from each blade of grass and the day begins. Tiny gnats and large flies dance and dart across my peripheral vision but dare not touch me. Not today. I came prepared. I brought bug spray and covered myself and probably got some in my coffee. My lips tingle with the disgusting flavor of the chemicals. I sip from my cup. This stuff should come with an ointment you rub under your nose to neutralize the stench. Nonetheless, I am on vacation.

There is something about the foreign sky and the clearly different construction of the local buildings that make me become aware of my attempt to remain in the moment. The unfamiliar would become commonplace within 6 months if I was to live here. People would come from all over the world to enjoy what I take for granted. Even those who live in paradise lose the nostalgia for their home. I know this because I recently experienced this.

I was living in Riverside county for so long that each time I would visit Orange County it was a place that held promise and wealth. Somehow cars were cleaner and the streets were lined with potential. After 13 years of living in a more rural environment, I became enamoured with the thoughts and dreams of one day moving back. Yes, back to Orange County California. The place that I would consider to be the real California. Just outside of Los Angeles and thirty minutes from Hollywood is the home of Disneyland and the Lad of Gracious Living. Yorba Linda, California.

I knew five years ago that I was in desperate need of change. I once tried to convince my wife to move to the center of Los Angeles to let me fulfill my dream of becoming a writer. Although, at the time, I had only written massive amounts of works that reside in a large briefcase under the stairs to this day. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that I was destined to be a created, dare I say self manufactured into a modern-day cross-breed between Charles Bukowski and Hank Moody. Minus the drunken womanizing.

I began feeling the desire to become a great writer long after I had written in journals for 25 years and hundreds if not thousands of short poetic stories. I never imagined that I would profit or even share my creations. Outside of a few small poetry readings, I just never wanted that. It was as if I was earning my rights to become a legitimate artist without the draw of the opinions of the audience or the attractions for a financial gain. I went from sharing my ideas with a pen and paper to submitting them to a still obscure platform like a blog. This blog. I refer to my lack of recognition as flying below the radar and I justify my lack of success to the gods of fate and chance. I convince my self that if I was to be noticed and rewarded for my unique creative talents and it led to fans money and fame that I would have ended up dying of an overdose of some sort like a Jim Morrison or maybe more a Jim Belushi. So it is as if I am giving myself an excuse not to share or promote this brand of me so as to not fail.

I will never forget the moment that my dreams of becoming the greatest creative mind of written thought and prose was diffused like a bomb in a Michael Bay flick. My wife was the slick know it all who was single-handedly responsible for clipping the green wire just in the nick of time. It was on the 10 freeway as we were returning from viewing a small, and I mean small, old, and I do mean old, apartment behind the La County Museum of Art. This place was about three thousand dollars a month for two bedrooms built in 1930 with a kitchen smaller that the master closet we had. It was on the corner and there was a small basketball hoop in the back of the building in an alley that the kids immediately began to make friends. I felt it though. The energy and the vibe. Naive and ambitious and ready to take Hollywood by storm. Then came the 10 freeway. I was online scouring the web looking for anything that was within earshot of Beverly Hills and Studio City. Then she uttered the four words that would revoke my hall pass to the future I was to manifest.

“What about Mission Viejo?”

“Orange County? What the fuck? Did this sound me trying to get out of Lake Elsinore or was it me trying to get into L.A.?”

I closed the lid to the laptop and stared at the passing freeway off ramps that one by one was ticking farther and father from the fantasy and into reality. This was the end of the longest orgasm of flow state that I had yet to experience.

It took a few more years for this to morph into a settlement of North Orange County. Because the beauty of the town we were in had gone from a 4 beer goggle, one night stand, to a case of beer just to allow a hand job from that ghetto whore of a town.

I still have a love hate relationship with the town that is mentioned in the opening paragraphs of my first publication. The town that adorns the lake and the mountains that roll into the Pacific.

To be in a home or to call any place home for 13 years is like marrying a high school sweetheart just because she was there, falling in love by proximity and then end up with a family before you got your first grey hair. Only to realize that the one was built on convenience and not passion. This in turn leads to a desire to run far away in a sort of midlife crisis in an effort to reclaim a false dream that even in the motion pictures never ends well. The moving always ends with the quarterback gone big coming back to the hometown only to reunite with the high school sweetheart that almost got away.

Now it makes sense. The beginning and the end remain part of the same. Like a ring of unavoidable tragedy and highly sought after ecstasy we will continue to elevate the cycle to higher plane of better times. Indeed these are the best of times and the worst of times. Yet I am in control of the perception of time. the great equalizer. Time. the one thing that makes me better than Steve Jobs and inferior to Elon Musk. One being dead and one alive and both leaving a legacy that which I too am working on.


The tin man found what he thought he lacked. The lion and the scarecrow too. I am also walking down the yellow brick road looking for what I want. What is that? If I could have one wish what would that be? It would be to capture that bliss that led me a blind faith and ambition so strong that I was willing to pack my family into a sardine can in the ghetto of the city of angels at the cost of three thousand dollars a month. I would be the ability to bottle the essence of that feeling which can only be described a a distinct and intuitive perception that this is the best possible wold and that this moment was the only one I have. The ability to live and exist in the now without any fee are fo pain or suffering. A sensation that selfishly has me staring at my children in awe of their potential and yet frantically creating content that will also fulfill my potential too.

The ability to become aware of that which is only reserved for high functions autistics and a few entrepreneurs and artists micro-dosing the interact with the responsibilities of the “real world” and yet coherent that the reality is a matrix. That the sense of timelessness that happens only after we die I can sense here.

This is why I vacation. I go to new locations and I get up early in the morning to write frantically and meditate on the potential of tomorrow and reflect on the successes of yesterday. In an attempt to engage in a flow state that will not only allow me to release the volcanic pressure to give more that I took and leave this place with a smirk on my face.

I met a man the other day who called me out on this intention. He led me to believe in my voice more than anyone has in a long time.

I sit here on the edge of a golf course gazing now across the awakening of the dawn in Indio. The flies are gone and the grass is no longer glistening. Just as I begin to hear the sounds of the family moving about in behind the sliding glass door that I deliberately opened and closed along with the night shades so as to avoid being jolted from this moment of authentic creative writing. The smell shifted from a misty waft of fresh-cut wet grass to a light breeze of dust and dirt not seen by the naked eye but distinct to the senses.

It is this sort of awareness that bring me to the intention of this writing. That I would be so captivated b the nothingness of a location that to some is a getaway and to others nothing more that just another Sunday morning. It is perception. It is an awareness of the moment and a never-ending vigilance to fend off the questions of the future that do not even exist and the answers that the past hold but are not necessarily capable of repeating itself.

Achieving the awareness of the beauty that is the present lies not in a question or an answer but in a statement that is by definition, undefinable. It is the ability to lift your eyes to look across the grassy knoll and not wonder about the days agenda but only the moments expectation. The ability to know that this is exactly what you want to be doing and that this location is the place to be. Like a child we must look to our immediate surroundings like a fun zone. You can take a child in the poorest of environments with nothing more that a full belly and plenty of rest and they will find entertainment and fulfillment in the way the dirty puddle of water splashes as they stomp. Yet, here we are, as adults grimacing at the LCD when we disagree with the mother letting the child play in the dirty water wondering why she is not providing. Meanwhile, her child sits ten feet away looping videos on YouTube of families having fun making videos and sharing it on the internet.

Perspective. For one it is never enough and for another there is not enough to give and for another it is plenty and for some they give it all away. The difference is in expectations and in perceptions.

Soon the wife will come out and tell me to hurry up and do my yoga so we can get to brunch. I will be woken from a slumber of complacency to join them inside as we woefully pack our belongings most needed into luggage and drag them to the car. I will begin to come out of my fantasy land slightly buzzed from what happened this morning and by tomorrow I will either forget that I can still be on vacation in may own home or I will just turn on the business phone and prod cattle through the field in an effort to build a nest egg meant to finance my future and a few vacations.

Perhaps this is why I am obsessed with endurance sports. The ability to sit on a bike for hours at a time or run for long distances is my way of forcing the mundane and commonplace of my abode to be throttled into a place where only the moment of stress can feed my desire to shut down and turn on that which escapes me behind the veil of the familiar.

Maybe I just don’t want to believe that a permanent high is possible. I wonder about those who have a belief in a god that has their back. I wonder if I too should attend a church so that I will chase this imaginary motivation coach that lives inside of me and guarantees me with promises of a heaven and that it will be hard but worth it. A god that will assure me that nothing I do can fail because with god all things are possible. But I cannot. Not just yet. Although I would think it keen to have a supreme being giving me permission to be myself, I would not be capable of being myself if I was not unable to confront the motivation behind my power. I am other to smart too believe or too stupid to understand faith. I suppose this would be the curse and the cure to my desire to become the best version of me that I can be.

Perhaps if I could imagine that I am on vacation from the afterlife then this world would actually be a far more interesting place to visit.

The Life and Death and Life Again of An Artist

I have been looking at my aging reflection as of late. Only the eyes remain the same. I am searching for someone that was left behind and forgotten. He is a small boy on a bicycle riding along the edge of the sidewalk. Careful not to fall off into the street, he speeds up and follows the curbs and dips along the gutters. Each fall is a chance to speed up and the rise is a jump. Unstoppable and free. Without a care.

His friend is also there doing the same. Suddenly his handle bars pop off of the neck on the yank of a jumps attempt. He does not even get off the ground but tumbles over the empty bike frame onto the sidewalk. Rolling head over heels he bounds up in pain skipping and hopping with laughter. Clearly in shock and filled with adrenaline, he shouts and hops around in what could only be described as a Native American dance chanting “oh my God!”

This may be one of my earliest memories of the fragility of being free to fly and free to fall. But not free to land. There is a price to pay for this freedom. It is a sacrifice to the altar of responsibility. The fines are hefty and are capable of sucking your wallet of all of its creativity and hope.

Hourglass reminds me how much I miss that boy. He never left and he never died. He just disappeared. Hiding not afraid but reluctant to enjoy the breeze along the endless sidewalk for fear of mechanical failure or judgement over the quality of the technique.

Limited in the world by lack of exposure, he grows older not knowing of the vastness and variety of the residents of the planet and its wonders. He forms his own identity. Totally aware of his surroundings and yet oblivious to the reality of a limitless potential. Feeling that wherever he goes there he is. Not alone and not afraid.

Where did he go?

I look at the reflection not from a mirror but as an echo of my thoughts. The landscape of almost a half a century, I cannot help that the days are growing shorter and I am half way to my demise. The big sleeper whispers in my ear and I turn up the music to drowned out the noise of the reapers chanting.

I realize that this is the best possible scenario and that this world is the only world we, I, have. I cannot help but to imagine the possibility that I may still be oblivious to the size of the world and its limitless potential, to my fault.

Every time I travel I find that there are so many inhabitants of the earth existing for their own satisfactions. They must be growing tired of living for the next event. I supposed this exhaustion is the same sentiment that keeps me from settling. It is what keeps my heart racing towards a destination where I amass a vast library of creations so that one day my manifestations can line my tomb. Only to be unearthed by some curious explorer wandering the cemetery randomly plucking out the names off a grave marker in an attempt to create a compelling story.

A narrative of an artist who never made it into the annals of history books. One that never let the the demons and angels of potential roam free through the world while alive. That none would have the chance to experience the man that is but only the man that once was. Only to be buried once again and in less that 2 generations be gone. Forever.

The life and death of an artist or creative is a miserable joy. This society has a sanctuary or a charity for many different types of people. Yet I am struggling to encounter the sanctuary where creatives can go to get help for the bipolar attention deficit depressions that tease out the very thing that keeps them alive.

We wear our crown of thorns and manage to crucify ourselves to suss out the extract of concentrated flow states to allow the release of exploration and creation.

Introverts by nature and extroverts in nature we seek to understand why it is that we just cannot allow. Criticized for complaining about that inability to just succeed without selling out. That business and pleasure must be a miserable conflict that could certainly be handled by a Charlie Runkle figure that perhaps is only a figment of our imagination.

Life and death of the artist becomes a painting displaying the contrast between the light and dark separating the paper from the ink. Dividing the words from the thoughts.

I look in the reflection and hope. Hope that this day will bring me great things. Hope that the world and its gravity will keep my grounded but allow my ride as fast as I can along the sidewalk and just as I hit the banks of the curb allow my to yank at the handle bars and leap far above the address painted on the face of that ramp. Allow me to have a smooth landing and keep peddling as hard and as fast as I want with no fear. With no hesitation.

Maybe this is a Journal

Maybe this is a diary of an insane person. The first time I heard the term High Function Autistism it all made sense to me. I self diagnosed myself with mild to severe HFA. I have been trying to structure this platform to conform to a target market or an avatar of my desire. I have been poking at this as if I am writing for someone else rather that writing for everyone else. I cant help but feel as if this platform is disposable. I am so used to writing in a physiscal journal that to fish my thoughts on a cloud just kills me. I think, what if the North Koreans use a weapon that does exist where they “fry” our electricity and wipe out the history we have all created? This is totally possible with a solar flare too. The Internet is far more delicate than most would think of.

I believe that our next big catastropy will be in the form of an electromagnetic pulse the wipes out our ability to have electric access and send up back to the dark ages. Some dark shit I know but this is something I think about when I decide to put my journal on 1’s and 0’s rather than quill and parchment.

Oddly enough I do have a hard cover journal in my room that I used almost daily that has a pen called the Livescribe and a special paper that reads my writing and pus it in a digital format. Not that is transcribes the text but copies my exact handwriting in real time. It uses and app that I can watch my words magically appear on the screen. I suppose I could look into the next level of this tech to see if I can find one that will take my cursive into fonts. That would be a good place for me to exist.

See? I am able to declare that this is in fact a journal. A place that I can empty my mind and reveal my dreams and nightmares. Speaking of which.

Fuck, I don’t even want to call it into existence.

I have been havin nightmares about January. I am reluctant to write this because by making this word of the after in to the living it may cause a ripple effect. The after being the time that we sleep. I call that a glimpse into what we have after death. I am 100% convinced that the afterlife is right under our noses and pillows. The place we go to when we sleep is the same places we go to in the big and final sleep. this is by far the most compelling evidence into life after death.

We clearly go somewhere else. The beliefs that we have about a god or a spirit will also translate there. So we live our lives in an effort to mold the shapes of our after by living a full life in this body. i believe once we enter the after we are able to remember this life and not feel physical pain but have a sense of sadness.

Our ability to control our emotions and our resistance to physical emotions to depression and sadness and fear will also carry on to the world after. We will be the same person and yet not the same. So if you life this life felling insecure about yourself then you will also be insecure there. that is is why starting today I must not let anything diminish my attempts to not be judged by anyone’s standard by my own.

If I allow the reflections and quanta of other peoples attempts to form thier existence, as brief as it is it will resonate in the echo of the after. Why then should I let someone I may or may not know be part of my forever. It would be the equivalent of letting every stranger throw a rock at me or tattoo me.

As for dreams they are part of the phenomenon of variety. Let’s use the two I recall from last night.

One was I was with my wife and the kids at the Living Desert in Palm Springs. As we were walking I saw a snake skin in the dirt. I thought is was large. Then from the feeling of it being a skin it was alive. I told Nicole and Jani to look out for snakes. As we walked there was another large one, and another. As we rushed to go inside a building there were a few baby rattle snakes lunging at m little girl. One appeared as if it hit the back of her calf. In that instant I was able to realize that this was a nightmare and in the same instant I shook myself awake.

I lay there with a racing heart. I suppose I should have looked at my Apple Watch to check my heart rate. I have been in a nightmare many times and knowing that it is a nightmare only when things got too hard to handle. With a strange ability to shake myself out of it.

Like a video game that is too intense or frustrating I and simply jump up and hit the power button to make it stop.

Allow me to consider then how this wil play out in the after. I believe that if we life this existence with a sense of hope that someone will save us or that this too shall pass o maybe even just be strong enough to suffer until the pain is gone this too will be the after. Because the pain will not be real and the loss of the person will also not be real so will the loss of a love one.

The suffering will be cured as fast as your soul can begin to see that this is the best possible existence and that there is no other.

This make me wonder about the implications of such an existence.

What if the connection we have in this life is limited to mental and elemental? What if the geographical distance between those we love were to disappear because there is not a mile or a wall between us? Does this mean that when we go into the after was will never see them again?

What is it to see them now?

It is the ability to touch and feel with our senses in the flesh. Yet there is this “other” sense that does not exist but is the strongest of all. I feel it in my chest when my kids hug me. Or when I have an orgasm. I feel it when I get into a hot jacuzzi after along day and when I have a great bowel movement.

It is comfort.

In the after we feel their presence but they are not present. We will sense the love that we feel now and we will be able to have experience or perceived experience. If in the after we want to be at the zoo or in front of a waterfall we will just be there in front of the walrus or water. We will basque in the beauty and awe that is the knowledge of the present. that feeling will fill out chest and our hearts.

It is comfort in the knowing that engages the flow of feeling. It is eternal and present. It is being in the moment with those we love by feeling their love. However it is not something that we will receive from another but a feeling we manifest in our own microcosm of reality.

How is that different than what we have now. Others that the ability to touch a fleshy surface and carry the weight of their hands or embrace of their bones wrapped in decomposing elements.

We are but 2 things in this life. Mental and Elemental. And one day, well one time, well soon, we will only be one thing. Mental. With this there is an absence of time and space. Only an existence of non existence.

As I write that works I sense this imaginary yet real shockwave of realization into a discovery similar to that time I became enlightenment of a sort.

Perhaps that same comfort is what draws the drug addict to use and ultimately abuse. It is was attracts the murderer to kill and the mother to nurture. It is the sense of our own purpose. Some want to help and some are more comfortable hurting. In a twisted mind many things are rational. I recall once being under the influence of laughing gas in the dentist chair. there was a moment that I was so comfortable I asked myself a question.

“If the dentist decided to cut off my arm would I care?” Seriously, you get weird thoughts. My answer was,”No.” I was so happy in the place I was in that nothing else mattered. Now in the after we also get to experience this same sense of comfort. it seems as if the life we are living, whether given to us by a god or a fluke of evolution we are able to be a version of ourselves for just a short while. This time is given to us to form a body of work and emotions and feelings that we can keep in the after.

If we live in fear we die in fear and then the after is fear. If we live with hope then we die with hope and the after is hope. If we live with love then we die with love and the the after is with love.

That feeling you get in your chest will be the light of your enteral existence. In the form of quanta the will perpetuate forever.

Maybe with are only one atom that has been traveling the cosmos and through our ability to manifest we were successful in securing a slot in this life as a human. but to suggest we are an atom would suggest that we are. When in fact we are not. this I know to be true.

Just by closing my eyes i had look into that which is the after. This is why the Buddhist close thier eyes when they meditate. this is why closing your eyes is part of the prayer. Why do we close our eyes to sleep and to pray and to meditate or even just to think?

It is for isolation. it is to experience the oneness with the existence of the after. The place where we go to when our bodies cannot take anymore. When our migraine with beyond excruciating. It is a place of comfort.

it is where we go to reflect and to feel that feelings we know best. The ones in the reflection of our eyelids. It becomes a place where even during pain we have the ability to diminish its effects.

Does this mean I want to die? WHy do I have this desire to create? What compels me to type this morning? Rather than turning on Netflix until I am ready to ride or run. I really enjoy easing into the morning. I would like to say I am a morning person but that would suggest that I am perky at 6 a.m.

I am most creative in the morning. It is a time when I am able to move very slowly as to not agitate the transition from the after into the present. It is that moment in the matrix when the plug is in the back of Neo’s neck and he plugs in. But not yet powering on. It is as if i am able to without necessarily jacking into the matrix allow for the remnants of the after to discharge the stored burts of trickled knowledge of the place I try to understand.

This is so strange.

I go throughout my day as a real estate agent and work hard to make money to finance my true passion. Becoming a prophet of sorts. Like some sort of Buddha or Christ figure that has a message for those who seek a deeper sense of purpose in life. I create to forms of content for others to consume. One is a format for the individuals that in my my are the least likely to see the other side of my dilemma. To be a robe wearing rabbi who sells homes?

I often think that if money were no object i would likely be a mess. Without the variety of my wrk life I would be insane with a need to fill a void that would clearly be a search for nirvana. If the need to provide for a family were not there and I was only in charge of provide comfort I would be in a race against time to squeeze experience into this life before it passes. This would lead me to drugs and alcohol in an efforts to sedate and stimulate the feelings of comfort when I am unable to convince others of my mission and to join me.

I would sit around and daydream and write poetry and paint only to become that long haired hermit with dirty jeans that you see wander the streets. Really. Imagine being a billionaire. This generation is seeing more billionaires that’s ever. this is making millions a standard for success and anything less that that is failure. It leaves us with a sense of lack that we try to satisfy by purchasing small trinkets and tech to provide comfort during the time we watch the wealthy on reality tv.

Yes, comfort is in fact the word of the day. Maybe this is why I like doing yoga. It is not comfortable but the pace is steady and it relieves a discomfort in my muscles and joints so that the rest of my day I am not crackling and limping. Sometimes I feel great afterwards and want to take on the world. Other times it is just a task to oil the moving parts.

And just like that my wife walks in the rooms and my kids are awake and my comfort in writing begins to fade. I begin to feel the pressure of the coming daylight erupting.

Success Against the Odds

Today I will begin a new life. Just as the echo and legend will live on of the 2017 Super Bowl, I too will come back from a failing position of mediocrity and come back to win the ultimate prize. The respect of my peers and colleagues. The adoration and admiration of those who stand by on the sidelines and cheer me on will raise me up high in their shoulders and shout words of my praise. Those who boos from the bleachers hoping to see me fall will only pound the walls and stomp their feet in the realization that i was undeniably the better man. Yes, today will be a countdown measure in quarters and timeout. The dawn, the morning, the afternoon and the evening, and the moments before I fall asleep.

I will not pity or belittle myself. I will know that every second that I spend on my psychological beratement will be a degradation of my character and a blemish on my legacy. There is not enough time to consider failure as an option for if there are on 100 years in my life plan I have already approached the half way mark. Even though this may seem as if there is plenty of time to achieve my goals and dreams of satisfactions it is far from coming fast. These seconds as I write frantically to expose my weakness are not gone forever but a form of brick and mortar on the foundation of the wall that will ultimately be the time capsule for my memories. That one day one individual or thousands can stand an sit along small wooden tables and discuss the theories that I manifest into existence in the one opportunity who achieve my visions of grandeur.

There was a moment or two in the last few weeks that I found myself in a state of depression. I confess that this was not only foreign but also familiar. Something that what once only an emotion limited to my teenage angst was now rearing is uglieness into my adult mind. I found myself drouwning in the sorrow of the vicious circle that was satisfaction with the pressure of impending failure. I was and still am in a position that is considered blessed and cursed at the same time. I can make with what I have something great or I can become crushed under the weight of the pressures of the debts to be repaid. Debts to society and financial institutions and worse of all the debts of the years of neglect on physical fitness. Even though I have made tremendous efforts to strengthen my vessel I have yet to even come close to the levels of health that would afford me the confidence of living to 100.

To be wealthy in finance and to be poor in health by 60 would be the ultimate cruelty that could occur. That I would be paralyzed or slowed down on my trip around the world or be unable to play ball with my great grand children would be a curse that would only be well deserved.

Things happens for a reason and I make those excuses reasonable.

The dead cannot be excused or forgiven. They have no say in the matter. Yet the richest bank in the world is buried in the ground. The vast fields of shrines dedicated to the dreams and hopes of so many that never took action because of fear or lack of time.

I have been facing my mortality lately along with a fear of lack. Having everything I need I always want two. If I go to the store to purchase an item, depending on the potential of its non existence on day I will buy 2 just in case. I am not sure who I have to blame for this justified and foolish worry for that which may never happen but I do. I suppose it happened many years ago when a software program for managing contacts changed its format and removed features. I can only image Ing that this became the root of my fear of loss. Crazy I know but its true. The software has gone through many revision since the early 90’s but the features and benefits I came to live with on a daily basis was never brought back.

Now I leverage every possible aspect of my life from a place of a fear of loss and hope for gain. A pain or pleasure formula that has me never quite satisfied and consistently tormented with the possibility of success and the probability of failure.

Why probable? Because it is easier to fail then it is to succeed. This is why there are so many more failures in the world. Those who live below poverty not by a lack of effort but by an abundance of not caring and allowing the flow to carry them. I realize there are many who work hard to achieve the minimum standards for food and shelter but that is not the ones I speak of. I am talking about those who avoid punch Ning the clock and look for the moments to work the system to their advantage because they feel entitlement based on discomfort in performing their duties.

Recently I have been really aware of the virus that is spreading in the world of self improvement in the form of motivations leveraging social media to force a false hope to those very same people. The individuals speak of this magical ability to Hustle your way to the top of financial riches by working 10 times harder than the competition and crushing the marketplace with obsession. Although I am one of the types that is gravitated towards these form of speakers I can help to feel as if there is something wrong with me because I am not internet famous or have amassed a large tribe of followers who would click buy now on my latest product. I was being brought into a world of expectation based on someone else’s career or industry.

I have come to discover the truest of expectations are that of what can be done based on what my heart sings for and avoids to hear the screams of. I fear the discomfort of having to ever change the course that I have plotted out of myself. I cannot imagine having it any other way but I can imagine having it a better way.

So today is destined to be a demonstration of that which makes me proud of my efforts and glad to perform the repetitious boredom of my vocation in an effort to achieve the level of confidence and courage necessary to be considered the best of the best.IMG_1054