What I Was

Preface: This has been an incredibly pivotal season of life for me, and I have been going through a time of radical self-realization. Tonight I took my blanket and candles to the shore for the supermoon blood lunar eclipse, and I wrote the following in reflection (Mainly) on the later part of my twenties. As I have certainly published TMI before, revealing my past flaws – flaws which others around me likely already saw clearly – is not something I am afraid of.

What I was:

Stuck in my head
Socially undiscerning
Feeling driven
Mentally passive
Overly effeminate / feminine dominate
Obsessed with the past
Too emotionly empathetic and vulnerable
Easily influenced
Scared of life
Insecure with women
Spiritually uncertain
Nervous / afraid
Unsure of myself
Hard on myself
On edge / jumpy
Approval seeking
Stuck in my story
Trapped in a bad feeling
Ignorant to how life works
Weak willed
Unaware of my potential
Unhappy with life, uncomfortable w life
Easily manipulated
Responsible for other people’s feelings
A victim
Sorry for myself
Reliant on others, dependent
Unexcited about life
Closed minded
Small minded
Did not define happiness
At the mercy of my feelings
Resentful of exes
Unable to understand extrinsic motivators / others
Distrustful of the universe
A passive partipant in life
Addicted to the past
Disconnected to others
Uncomfortable with silence
Felt responsible to lead conversations
Down about life
Poor self-image / externally defined
Defined by my past / confined to who I was
Defined by experiences (past perspectives)
Resentful of my childhood
Uncompassionate to myself
My own worst enemy
Unwilling to take responsibility
Blameful of others
Easily influenced by ideas and concepts i.e., “I’m a writer”
Unforgivng of myself
Concerned with people’s judgements but not healthy approval
Unable to let go
Uncomfortable with discomfort
Afraid of confrontation, discomfort
Resigned, ignorant to the power of will, unable to “change” / stuck in my experience
A passenger in life
Stuck in my perspective, did not take responsibility for it
Not at home in the world
Desiring for a “home” but unwilling to take responsibility for it
Afraid to confront my emotions
Concerned w having all the answers to unimportant questions
Unaware of my biases and assumptions
Not aware that my experience was nothing more than my perspective, my processing computer
Unwilling to let people down
Afraid of bad things happening
Poverty mindset
Overly sensitive
Unable to interpret people
A product of family society
Ignorant to the oaktree in the acorn
Quick to fall in love
Full of sorrowful, pity laden, excuses
Poor boundaries, wanted to be loved by everyone, friends w everyone
Wanted every girl to like me
Too open too soon
Unwiling / afraid to examine the past, the deeper reasons behind my decisions
Unprepared, backwards – rather than forward thinking
Selfish in the wrong ways, not sensitive of others
Ill prepared, poor at prepearing
Did not view myself as lovable
Did not understand why people liked or did not like me
A follower of the wrong minds
Unwilling to say no to people
Note: need to go back through life story I wrote and learn, resee things
Was not objective of things, life, decisions, limited to my own head
Victim rather than hero mindset
Could not contain my feelings to myself
Unable to see past present feelings, to a larger narrative
Did not define my own disposition
Egocentric instead of reality centered
Way too impartial due to emotions, did not fault ex girlfriends
Unable to set a plan and stick to it, afraid to pen in my dreams
Needed people to believe in me in order to believe in myself
Unaware of my flaws
Felt I needed the girl of my dreams to dream
Unaware of the limits of my dominating paradigms ex: “The purpose of love is to dream…”
Note: the purpose of love is to share happiness
Unable to move on, to adopt a healthy outlook
Unable to discern other people’s values,
Not concerned enough with them
I lived inconsistent w my own (values) – as a result, I had mixed/poor priorities
Emotionally masochistic
Nothing, including my happiness and wellbeing (nor the happiness of those I loved) was sacred
Did not understand what people wanted for – or from – me
Did not have healthy / confident / worthy expectations of myself
Conformed to the desires of others without taking my own into account
Not at peace with myself and with life
I created struggles in order to justify my story, the pain of my past
Did not define or understand what I needed in the day to week to week living of life
Did not give myself healthy credit for the things I did right, or even just for trying
Did not love or even like myself
Made promises I could not fulfill or did not plan to
Did not apologize when I should have, forgave when I should have not
I looked for the bad and I missed the good
Did not have the compassion to understand who I am
Said the wrong things and sometimes left the right things unsaid
Thought in absolutes, did not understand the perfection of balance, tension between opposites
Let other people’s emotions effect me too much, was not grounded in my own calm masculine energy
Drifted through life, was conquered by my weaknesses, rather than finding victory in my strengths
Attracted the wrong kind of attention to myself
Did not have healthy, mature boundaries
Did not understand people are a product of the times, as was I
Did not understand what I was so desperate to escape from
Did not think about the consequences of my actions
Did not know any better
Did my best

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake, The Marraige of Heaven and Hell, (From which Aldous Huxley took the title for his book, ‘The Doors of Perception’, detailing his experience with Mescaline).


Poem of a Thousand Songs: To A Muse and Amuse

The bombs go off,
But I’m safe from the fire
And not in your eyes,
Where I once drowned in desire

I’ve forgotten what it is to feel joy
Suffocated myself in that fake plastic pity
Lost, my feelings, an amoeba, they grew wild in this city
Holding your atlas hand in the dark, trying to find us
Under an orange sky
In That Tiny Apartment
Where we died

And now,
After all this time, carrying your heart in mine,
I’m ready to lose who I am again

So I drank a cactus tea,
And I lay down a blanket near the sea
But no Romeo am I,
For it is your heart and not mine that must die

Surrounded by tea lights
Listening to Elton John
Taking flight
Remembering the ecstacy of foreign delights

And no, I am not going to write you another love song

On my journey to the center of the earth,
As deep down as our love hath sent me
I have seen some things,
In that tomb within me
Shadows with the weight of atom bombs
My whole world they did destroy
But now I gotta go back,
One last time
To dive under waves of loneliness and save the boy
This innocence has not been all spent yet

I want to raise my soul way up
So high I can never look down on it again
Way up above
There is no drug as bold as love,
No come down as hard

Your song is one I now skip over,
The train won’t stop there again
It is bitterseeet that I confess,
I can’t forever fate my gaze on the memory of a dead friend

I just heard a laugh in the, so great, in the distance
It was contageous
And that is how I want to be,
My happiness ought be outrageous

A revenge that sweet would be the best success
Picture my next girl:
A hippie soul in a Cavali dress
Body so soft that I will caress
Credit cards all black like Kanye West –
What dreams may come yet at thirty

No my life isn’t over
I’m merely starting back at one
Now that I’ve quit counting the losses I let go of,
My life’s just begun

But I never forget my mortality,
In the surrealness of an unplanned reality
So maybe I’ll start laying plans
Cast this mortal die again
He’s a magician that has immortal friends

So I think I’ll delete half my music library
Trade this dead baggage for a real life
Make a path for a real wife
In the peace, the armistice of a soul no longer at war

How’s that for a dream
Because, I’m telling you,
The past isn’t all it seems
It’s no yellow brick road that swallows you whole
And Elton told me I was too young to be singing the blues

In short,
I’ll not stand on the platform anymore,
Waiting on you,
And for my life to change

I think I can take the speed it’s moving
So I think I’ll jump on,
Seeing as how we can’t stop this train

And when I blow out these candles and go home
I’ll not lay down in my bed like a grave
And I’ll eat my breakfast like wedding cake
For these mistakes were mine to make

I’ll be good from here on out
Living life like I should,
For all the times I never could
That’s Grace
Not being scared of the blood stains on your hands,
Massacres you made of your best laid plans
Yes, sometimes the plane crashes into a mount
But of your life you need not make a mount of doubt

Once more into the great wide open,
The unknown,
The mystery of life
I’m ready to go
To run through the heat of the sun

And no, a poem of a thousand songs can’t write my wrongs,
But neither will dying for them do
The sad truth is, I don’t think you are the least bit blue that I’m not right there, with you
And this, I’ve made for a muse!
No, this will not do.

I will cut from magazines,
Lay waste with scissors to Byron’s poems,
To build a house for my heart
A fineshrine for a home,
Till she pulls little lips around me
And dies under me in joy

That I might again feel the unspoiled purity of the boy within me,
Ah, that, Horatio,
Is Heaven and Earth
More fine than all the things in my dreams or the finest philosophies

In the future,
There is a roast chicken cooking,
A brass bed for my lady to lay, lady, lay
Her head on my heart,
And mine in hers
In the morning, we will shower together,
And have our sweet sin again

It’s more than a forever home,
This dream, my life,
The sum of all the love I have ever known
And for that, I will kick my addiction to pain past
Smash through sanctified memories like stained glass
No more Alas..
Alak! Hark ye, your heart to mine,
Hear my poem of a thousand songs
If you can read betwixt the lines,
May you forever be mine.
Let’s lay waste to fear,
Make love,
And become the divine

I, the poet, the writer,
You, The Wife
If that be not the dream you dream of,
Then please, forget me not – but stay neither

Haha, I laugh, light, for us
These candles, my trust
It burns for you,
The mystery, the unknown,
The muse

At six percent battery,
The writing soon comes to an end
And to The Muse, Mescalito, And the memory of a dead friend,
I dedicate these words
May they pierce the right ears and hearts
Giving life to both and repose to each

To live and let live,
May this love be forever for giving and forgiving
Because, this life, dear reader, is for living

4 percent, we’re gonna play all the eay till the end,
Till the power’s out and the candles burn
Till my Soul teaches me,
Everything I have to learn

Till zero hours, nine am
After this poem,
Neither you nor I
Shall ever be the same again

No, we are not the men and women they think we are
We are the technicolor rainbow of stars
The later ones, in their high-mass years,
That exploded and threw us up
Given to this life,
But never forgotten
Our bodies but not our souls,
Destined to be rotten
Memento mori
Like the battery,
We will die

3 percent
The candles now, like us,
Pure and wet
Burning hot with our dreams of youth and love
Breathing deep,
To remember it in,
That years and years on
We may remember, and return
Reading these words again

2 percent,
Almost back at 1
Where we, in motion, will stop
To live our lives,
Before we return to the earth to fuel the sun
That shall burn hot with our dreams of youth and love

1 percent
Never forget that I loved thee,
That we slept nights as sweet as Christmas Eve
But now, years and years on
We beat, burning back,
Born ceaselessly into the sun

Now, I go, off for a little fun
Before I die
That I may live and love.
May as well try
All we have are our dreams and our life
Let us close the gap before we …

In Search of Home

Oh me, my, I’ve been so voiceless
Still, the same feel of time traps me in my songs

And no matter how hard I try to fight it,
The past beats in me like a drum

I’ve done my worst to silence the best in me,
But not even in death will I rest in peace like we

Please, someone tell me if I sold my soul,
Because it’s as if I’ve forgotten where it is

And I’ve burned down so many houses to search the ashes,
Time and time, only to find her bones

And I’m still looking for it:
That feeling she and I called home

If Not Now, When?

So many drafts; just like my life: my business a draft, my books drafts – my success a draft – my dreams a draft.
But alas, life is no rehearsal; I play starting squad on a team of one every single day.

And here as I sit, shoulders haunched, stomach slightly pudge and paunch, this is who I am: a California Thoreau; a yuppie-hippie – candlelit and lovesick – my boyish heart beating a stone’s throw from my boyhood home. This is as whole as I will ever be.

Sure, I, like my drafts, am unfinished; and I may become more complete as they do, but I’ll never be more the bard than I am now – I either have it or don’t; the gift, the magic, the love of humanity. I believe these things exist within me.

This is my myth, the story I am living, and it terrifies me. I have been blogging writing underground nearly six years. And this waking dream I call 7saturdays has evolved with me – from the online diary of an ambitous twenty-four year old, to a neverending letter to myself, my future readers.

And, until I finish those drafts, I know I am placing messages in bottles to no one. Because I know that, like the still waters before me, my life holds them all captive. The lack of flow, of digging deeper to push these letters downstream, holds them all back. And they are adrift, like ships in a fog, at the mercy of the current, and the current is what waits for no man; for the current is time; and I: the moon, master of the tide.

The tide won’t wait. And then, there is only the dread of the rocks. No redemption for my soul, no reaching millions with my books. Not if they are drafts.

I must shape the world as I see it fit to live in; I must build islands in this sea. Otherwise the bottles float on, lost forever.

It is my hope – my deepest desire – that I will become one of the greats. Not to be great – to do great. I think it was Jung who wrote: Goethe does not create Faust, Faust creates Goethe.

And in this fashion, I aim to complete my drafts and in working on them to work on myself, to work on the world. In this way, my life’s work will become part of our human story, our history. For what does a writer do if not write the biography of the world? His work capable of permeating past, present, and future.

But, oh the dread of the rocks!

However, I must look to my library, to the men and women who cast off before me – to the poets, philosophers, and writers who have landed on my shore – to the ones who invited me to this great wide sea. And it is with deep appreciation and great awe that I read their works. I read with the hope all writers have: the hope that through some mystical, intellectual osmosis, their gifts will inform mine.

There are a thousand reasons books at my home, all beckoning me forth.

Beckoning me to sing along, lest my swan song be a mere death rattle and not an echo for eternity.

I wish G-d would whisper to me now, and maybe He is. Maybe the desire in my heart is a promise; and I would like to believe it is, which is, I think, a sign of fear – as is the case with all things we would like.

I fear greatness. I fear people thinking I am a fraud, a wannabe. As if I will be rejected for thinking I could build telescopes that let people see the stars.
But that is what I want my books to do. It’s what Shakespeare did. He took people to places in their hearts they had never been. He expanded the depth of the human heart. Joy, sorrow, laughter, ire – reading Shakespeare teaches me that these are part of a human life, part of the beauty and fullness of living. I too would like to be a steward of humanity.

And given the opportunity I have to do so, I feel blessed; and, as is the case with anyone who feels himself to be blessed, it is immensely humbling.

I do not forget where I come from: I was a kid who grew up in the proverbial gutter – and maybe that’s the problem: my inability to shake the feeling that life was hard. Then again, is a hard life not the fire in which writers are forged?

I write here to curate my living myth, my story. To pull the tide closer to my dreams. Dreams held back by excuses.

But, if not now, when?

There is nothing more to say, only to write.