It Feels Like I Need to Install a Freight Elevator.

I have a very distinct memory to share with you. I remember sitting in the office of the school nurse when I was in third grade (although I don't remember why I was there), and considering my family's upcoming trip to Disneyland. I knew that Disneyland was a big deal, and that I should be terribly excited. My siblings were positively purple with anticipation, but I calmly thought to myself, "There's no point in saying, 'I can't wait to go to Disneyland.' Clearly, I can wait and shall wait, and whatever fun I have while I'm there will be the fun I have." This may seem remarkably zen for a nine year old, but I think that in reality the experience was simply too big; it didn't fit through the door of my consciousness. I only bring it up because I have had that experience a lot lately. Huge things have happened to me recently, not the least of which is the sudden appearance of an eligible man in my life. I should be ecstatic, gleefully and tritely floating on air, etc., but the moment is too big. Perhaps, gentle reader, you've tried to dunk a big cookie in a glass of milk, but had to let it absorb a bit of milk and soften before you could really get it in. That's how it seems: like the feelings are wedged in the doorway of my consciousness, and I can't experience them fully until I get them in.

Perhaps it would be a good time to let someone in, though. Do you remember what it was like when you went through puberty and had growing pains? The awkwardness, the feeling of being a visitor in your own body? I feel like I'm going through metaphorical growing pains right now. I reach for thoughts and misjudge the distance, knocking them over and spilling them. I feel bigger, and I'm becoming cramped for room. Perhaps the best time to let somebody into my inner rooms is when I'm on the move, and I haven't yet unpacked all the thoughts and memories. That way it won't matter that he comes in and moves everything around. But what if he starts leaving things behind in my consciousness as an excuse to return? What if he brings luggage?

By the Way, His Name is Nathan.

I wrote a poem today. See if you can discern what motivated me.

* * *

Making Room

This man deserves a poem--
sincere, accessible, beautiful--
but I am writing blanks.
It's too much, too good.
It can't sink in yet;
there's not enough room for it.

I have just enough language
to describe the surface of the moment:
He let me probe around in his consciousness,
and it was well-lit,
comfortable, Hellenic.
He is a work of art, except for that piercing
(it's like trying to improve Winged Victory
by giving it a cheap necklace).

I gave him the guided tour of myself,
and later I noticed:
things weren't quite where I left them.
Just when I had everything
precisely where I wanted it--
each aria and iambic fragment
hanging in the perfect place--
a new, wonderful
moment needs accomodation.

I already know I won't be able
to stop thinking about him.
The experience will absorb thought,
and soften,
And I'll find the perfect place for him.
Maybe then I'll write an ode.
But people, unlike stacks of memorized verses,
never stay where you put them.

Is Suffering a Virtue?

Is the person who runs a marathon blindfolded better than the one who runs it simply? Is the man who does his work while whipping himself more commendable than he who does it without flourish? Is it of any value to have chosen to hard way? Is there a panel of judges somewhere awarding points for difficulty of execution?

I worry that I have developed a false perspective. Although it seems illogical and unsound, I so far have been unable to disbelieve that doing something the hard way is more valuable than doing it simply. Is this simple masochism, or is there something else at work? The court is now prepared to hear the case of Brandon V. The Easy Way.

Baking from scratch, reading literature in the original language, fasting, making my own jewelry. Is the hard way a means or an end? It wouldn't concern me so much, except that I seem to have chosen a very seriously hard way, namely to be attracted to men, and I worry that it is an invalid choice. It is just possible that I am doomed, in love and otherwise.

Everywhere I go, women are drawn to me. I sincerely believe that I could have a chance with any woman to whom I could be attracted. Has my subconscious declared that too easy, and correspondingly reduced the playing field by 90%? Is my attraction to men simply a more sophisticated version of the hair shirt monks once wore?

Is this life scored? Does the scoring correspond to some form of reward or punishment? What are the criteria? I can sincerely say that I have no desire to be rewarded for what scanty virtue I may posess. What is more accurate is to say that I wish to be acknowledged. I desire for there to be a reckoning, and to hear that I have done well, or even best.

The ideas of paradise and heaven have no power for me. I once was taught to believe that a good life would be rewarded with eternal, blissful life, but I could never get on board with that. In fact, bliss continues to have no appeal for me. I would choose life with a good deal of challenge and even a dash of misery in a heartbeat over life of untrammeled joy.

Have I set myself up? If I cannot be happy with happiness, is discontent my fate? Oddly enough, I don't think so. In fact, I have so little expectation of happiness, I have come to be content with the very barest of joys. At the same time, although I wouldn't care for perfect happiness, perfect success would ignite me like a floodlight.

On a larger level, this could turn out badly for me. If I cannot embrace happiness, how could I ever be in perfect alignment with the universe? Will there always be a black cord tying me to pain, no matter how earnestly I strive for the infinite? Or is it possible to finally release and declare that being happy doesn't make me weak and hedonistic?

Am I really so scared to be accepted by the universe that I cannot let go of pain and stoicism? Never let it be said that I am afraid to face the difficult truth, for every instinct is telling me that yes, this is precisely the problem. What would be so bad if I were actually to be acceptable the way I am? What harm could possibly come of it? None. Then why does it terrify me?

Having my Period

Well, the bluebird of happiness has left my window for the time being, and has been replaced by the raven of ennui. There has been no real change in my circumstances, but spending a week at the top of my cycle has depleted me and left me with a vague dissatisfaction. As a result, I really am not feeling effusive and have nothing profound to record. I simply felt that it might interest you, gentle reader, to know that I am having a down day.

Interestingly, my biorhythm chart claims that today is the absolute peak of my emotional cycle. We shall see, but I find that rather difficult to believe. I feel like a brittle, emotional wreck. On the positive side, I know that it shall pass; it always does. In fact, the less I fight it, the quicker I shall return to my peak. I suppose I could go back on my meds (for bipolarity), but as long as it's manageable I prefer to handle it myself. By the way, you may notice that there are blank spots in this blog. Whenever there is a space without posts, it is safe to assume that this is where I'm at.

Well, that was a different post, wasn't it?

Random Paragraphs

The first time I put "Mr. Payne" on the blackboard, I grew up a little. I stepped back and looked at it, thinking, "Who's that?" But I suppose that's me from now on, which means no more going to the local club; how great would it be to run into students there or, worse, to be hit on by one? Thank you, but that's a conversation I can do without, so no more.

* * *

It is harder than I thought it would be to give up. I anticipated an epiphany, the moment of my ultimate trial arriving, and the soundtrack lingering in C minor while I wrestled with myself until, gloriously, I pass a point of no return and am healed forever as the orchestra bursts into a D major celebration with tutti coro. Instead, I experience a constant re-surrender, giving my life by inches instead of in a dramatic climax. Nonetheless, I am on a growth path once more, and as uncomfortable (and untheatrical) as it is, I embrace it. I am sustained by the light of the universe, and I forfeit all other claims.

* * *

It is especially difficult to accept that I am simply not ready for a romantic relationship right now. I have an effusive heart, and I long to pour the consuming flood of my love into someone deserving. Yet the consistent unwritten message I seem to get from the universe is "Not yet." The only thing that keeps me alive is the conviction that, when love arrives, I will recognize it without a doubt. All the lights will dim, save one, and I will tell myself, "It is time."

* * *

When I run into people I knew a year ago, I can't help but realize how far I've come. This past year has held incredible growth for me. At the same time, I open myself up to the devouring, healing love of the universe which fills me like a liquid sunset, like a cloud of magma, and which, if visible would resemble the pillar of fire that led Israel to freedom, and I realize that I have only experienced a blink's worth of the growth that awaits me.

* * *

If I am meant to have a heart-partner, a pobratim,

The following are not optional: open, honest, committed, brave.
The following are heavily encouraged: smart, warm, iconoclastic, mature, spiritual, centered.
And the following would seal the deal: well-read, someone to dance with, handsome, someone to sing with, good taste, financially stable, someone to raise children with, someone my family will accept.

The Season of Disadornment

In considering what to give up for lent, I ran through the traditional list of vices (smoking, drinking, ichthyphilia, etc.) but nothing quite seemed suitable. After all, to give something up simply because of pleasureableness seems to belong to the belief that suffering is a virtue, a belief to which I do not subscribe. And to give up something for lent that should be given up anyway seems to be a token effort. And so, I decided not to give up anything for lent, but simply to give up. That is to say, I renounce all claim to anything but the sustaining Thought-Fire of the universe. You might remember me saying, loyal reader, that if I am meant to be alone in life, I refuse to play. I have shifted from that. What I am and what I receive are enough; I have no need to chase after or grab for anything else. This applies, not only to intimacy, but to knowledge and approval as well--I have deposed my triumvirate of vices. I do not renounce the things themselves (what sort of a ninny would I be to renounce knowledge?), but that I forfeit all claim to them. Knowledge, intimacy and approval may still come my way, but I no longer demand them from the universe.

In the book "Culture Jam," Kalle Lasn defines successful living as developing a healthy "stuff to happiness ratio." Though a person completely bereft of stuff may not necessarily be successful or happy, between two equally happy people the more successful is the one with less stuff. It is not necessary to live ascetically, but one would do well to consider whether they are getting a good return on their investments in terms of actual contentment. While I am doing pretty well in terms of posessions (I have nothing), it seems to me that this applies to encumbrances that are other than material. For example, I have a complusion to adorn myself with skills--to be good at everything. I want to take tap and gymnastics lessons, learn to speak all sorts of languages, memorize Hamlet, become a cinematic connoisseur, etc.. What are these things but more stuff? To the extent that I wear them like a Louis Vuitton handbag, they occlude me in precisely that manner. My goal, therefore, is to disadorn myself, to boil myself down to the essence. If, when I become so reduced, I still want these things, then I can add them without fear of darkening myself to the fundamental light of the universe. It is this light, the Thought-Fire of Marcus Aurelius and the Stoics, which always passes through me where I am transparent to it, and which is God.

Chapter Three, Page One:

Sometimes things happen that makes your day. Today made my life. I learned two things today, either of which individually would have sufficed to mark this life worthwhile. It is too good. Thank you, thank you to the living universe, thank you.

On Monday, I reluctantly submitted to an energy healing on the advice of my friend Val. I don't know what I expected to gain, but yes Mom, if Val told me to jump off a bridge I would do it. I trust her implicitly. So I experienced an energy healing, and it was a bit woo-woo, and I didn't feel anything. Among other things, however, the [Conduit? Healer? Practitioner?] claimed that I had energy cordings to my ex-wife, Jeung, which were better severed. I disagreed at first, but the fact that I felt myself bristle and resist when she suggested that I sever ties was evidence enough for me that I was still attached. So she severed the energy cords (I feel a powerful urge to put all of these terms in quotation marks), and sent me on my way. I called Jeung today to tell her of the passing of a mutual friend, although we haven't spoken for a year and she made it very clear that I was not to contact her. She was pleased to inform me that she became engaged just a few days ago, shortly after my energy healing.

Point number one: I am absolved. I have carried such a ponderous burden of guilt about our parting that I haven't really felt clean or good since. From my perspective, it seemed that a truly good woman (and rest assured that good is the only word in my extensive vocabulary that applies) gave me her heart and I broke it. How could any amount of philanthropy or self-sacrifice possibly absolve me of such monumental evil and weakness? I have, therefore, secretly been telling myself that I am a bad man for years. If Jeung is to be married, however (and I know her family will not allow it unless it is a world-class match) then she is not broken after all, and redemption is in sight.

Point number two: The universe works. There are such things as coincidences, but this cannot be one. Not only did my severing ties with her seemingly free her to become engaged, but the universe conspired to tell me about it (the sudden appearance at work of a mutual friend whom I haven't seen in years, who told me of the passing of another likewise distant mutual friend, which gave me the pretense under which to call, for example). Furthermore, she said, "I had a feeling you would call . . ." even though there was no way I could have known of her engagement, nor any way she could have known I would disregard the DNR order on our communication. It is of these feelings and energy cordings that I have always believed the universe to be constructed, and there are no words to describe the expansive relief that accompanies this evidence. I am so used to sending messages into the void with nothing more than a vague notion that they are recieved by somebody greater than I am, and I have expected to do so ad infinitum. I still trust my instinctual experience of the universe, but I suspect that I could not have sustained a belief on such an elusive wisp of understanding indefinitely. This tiny glimpse of a priori knowledge is enough to sustain me for years in my faith that the universe is actually a functioning system. It is too good. Thank you, thank you in every language and in no language, thank you.

Ornithotypology

I had another real moment today. As I approached my front door today, a cedar waxwing flew so close to me that he actually brushed my shirt with his wing. I suddenly noticed that dozens of them were perched nearby and were eating the berries from a juniper near my front door. They were so close I could see their expressions. They looked like their faces had been airbrushed on, so perfect and crisp. It was such a beautiful and moving sight, I just stood and looked at them for at least fifteen minutes, until they grew tired of being admired and folded themselves back into the sky en masse. I have had this experience before. I have been in a bar, surrounded by gorgeous, flawless people--seedier waxthings, if you'll indulge me in a bit of wordplay--sipping their juniper and tonics, and allowing themselves to be admired. I have been so overwhelmed by the ubiquity of beautiful people that I can't decide who to look at first, until sensory overload convinces me to fold back into the scenery and disappear.

The Romans were in the habit of finding signs in the appearance of birds, and I cannot help but do the same here. For the first time in my life, I am one of those beautiful people. I have lost sixty-five pounds, and am in the best shape of my life. I find myself in the unfamiliar circumstance of being hit on by strangers, etc. It is therefore significant that, after the waxwings had denuded the juniper and flown away, I heard the beautiful song of a chickadee. I stooped to see under the branches of the juniper, and there he was: contendedly exploring the underbrush and sincerely sending his piccolo voice into the universe. He was nowhere as pretty as the waxwings and not at all glamorous, but my home was not simply a stop on his way to Mexico. He had nowhere better to be. What he had was enough.

Kierkegaard endorses the idea of "Ultimate Resignation," and I think this is the option in front of me now. I have the charisma and appearance necessary for initiation into the prestigious fraternity of ambulatory Abercrombie billboards, but I decline. I am sustained by the light of the universe, and I forfeit all other claims. In fact, I am officially not looking for romance or approval of any sort (and if you have read much of this blog, you know how preoccupied I have been with it). Anerriphtho Kubos.

Crediting My Sources

After visiting for a week, my parents went back to Kentucky today. It seems appropriate, in the tradition of Marcus Aurelius, to add to this online version of his Meditations an acknowledgment of the personal debts I owe to them (and to a few others). I don't pretend to list (or even be aware of) my material debts to my Mom and Dad. Rather, there are certain things about myself that I like, and for which they are responsible. This meditation is not meant to be comprehensive, but it is meant to be fundamental.

1. To my Father I owe my capacity to give my heart the first word. I often aphoristically say that my Father moves faster than the speed of thought; that is to say, he is at his best when he acts instinctively, even before consideration is humanly possible. To wit: I was once visiting the Louvre with my family, and I saw a little boy fall and skin his knees. We were near the top of an escalator, and he was at the bottom. I thought to myself, "Somone should really help him . . ." but, I swear to you, before the thought was even complete my father was already at the bottom of the escalator helping him to his feet. It was as if he had teleported. In less time than it takes to blink (or so I remember), he had vaulted to the aid of a complete stranger. It was then that I first saw my Father for who he is: a man whose heart moves him to act before his mind can catch up.

2. To my mother I owe my capacity to give my reason the last word. In a situation where reflection is required instead of immediate action, my heart becomes turbulent and unreliable. It is then that I am most grateful to my Mother, for I have inherited a portion of her insight and sagacity without which I would be a hopeless mess. Between my Father's heart and my Mother's mind, I have a decision-making apparatus that seldom steers me wrong.

3. To both of my parents I owe my unflinching honesty. I don't mean honesty in the ethical sense of truthfulness and uprightness, which I don't have in such abundance as I might. I mean, rather, honesty in the more valuable sense of objective forthrightness. This means, for one thing, that I speak my mind with only what circumlocution is required to preserve diplomacy and no dissimulation whatsoever. What is more valuable to me, however, is that I tell myself the truth. I am under no illusions about my motives, habits and character flaws. There is no truth about myself so ugly that I refuse to acknowledge it. I trust myself, therefore, and I cannot think of many who do.

4. To both of my parents I owe my hospitality. What is mine is yours, cherished reader, though I may never have met you.

5. To my Mother I owe my empathy for the outcasts and underdogs, who never escape her notice and tender concern.

6. To my Father I owe the understanding that my smile is a beacon of fellowship to others and a panacea to myself.

7. To my Mother I owe my conviction to do that which everyone knows must be done. You may have found yourself in a group of people who all know that someone must stand up and speak out, but do not want to be the first to do so out of fear. Each of them would gladly be the second to take a stand, but haven't the conviction to face the possibility of being the only one standing. Perhaps you have then seen someone stand up and start a flood of assent allowing real action to be taken and genuine injustice to be averted. That person was my Mother.

8. To my Father I owe the understanding that, somehow, it will all be okay. Worry if you must, but it will turn out for the best regardless.

9. To my Mother I owe my conviction that the welfare of a child is the absolute highest good.

10. To my sister I owe the knowledge that second chances and forgiveness happen.

11. To my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Hergenretter, I owe the knowledge that strangers can be okay.

12. To my sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Johnson, I owe my faith that children can take the truth.

13. To my Gramma I owe the knowledge that I don't have to change anything about myself. I can if I want to, and some things really could use a little polish, but I don't have to, because I am okay, dammit (my Grandmother would never say dammit in front of me, however).

Please understand that there are plenty of nasty traits I have inherited, as well as plenty of traits the source of which I cannot divine. I simply felt like acknowledging my debts, and expressing my deep gratitude to and for some of the wonderful people I have been blessed to learn from. Thank you.