On New Year's.

I can't really remember when I started it. I remember standing outside the Tavern, I remember standing on rooftops, I remember walking through the desolate streets of Ocean City.

It's a simple little ritual. Find a moment after midnight to get away, to slip out into the night with a glass of whiskey in my hand, and empty my mind. Find a second of stillness in the dark, and think. Think of those that matter to me. Where they are, what they might be doing.

Tonight I'll think of those under the roof I'll share, the truest beauty of good friends mere minutes away.

Tonight I'll think of those in the great city I walked away from, spent laughing with friends and significant others and wives and husbands.

Tonight I'll think of those who celebrated before me, curled up in beds in London, on a couch in Bruges, getting on a train to Budapest.

Tonight I'll think of those close but not close enough, sharing this city and my heart. Of the girl in Boston, the one in DC, the family in Connecticut and New Jersey and Pittsburgh.

Tonight I'll think of those in time zones west, with their boyfriend's family in Chicago, with his wife in LA.

These are the people I love, that have meaning to me. I will stand on this whirling planet, and I will love them; I will pray they find a moment of quiet to sit in, and pray they can feel it as I speak these borrowed words.

Now we are known.

We take root.

Happy 2014.

On Amsterdam.

So here I am, somewhere over the Atlantic, throat still itchy from the cheap hash we had to finish before we left the boat, arm crackly and aching from the fresh ink scratched into my skin three days prior. Already in my head I can hear the inevitable cavalcade of voices asking the same thing - “How was Amsterdam?”

Somewhy, I don't really feel like answering. Not for any particularly deep-rooted reason – there wasn't some deep resonance to the trip that would encourage me to keep it to myself, nor did anything untoward happen for me to keep under my hat. Amsterdam simply was, and I was in it. I had a good time, and now I'm coming home.

Then how do I answer? With the obvious, I suppose – with the details, with the simple joy of meeting Darian at the door, or finding Jon at Centraal or Pigtails leading her cadre to us in the rain. The cheese, the coffeeshops, the bars and clubs, the Christmas dinner. The genever and the advocaat, the stroopwafel and showarma. Or even the quiet times between, the hours spent watching movies and napping, lying about in flannel and comfortable t-shirts.

It was a vacation. One with plenty to do at our fingertips. For some of us, it was one stop of many, a link in a chain of crazy European adventures. For others, it was an escape from the day to day, a walkaway from our jobs and quiet lives. It's over, and I'm ready to get back my work and my kitties.

But regardless of what it was, or how it was, I spent Christmas Day with a table of near-strangers and dear friends, raising a glass to something as simple as a houseboat on the canals of Amsterdam.

So here's to that.

On blogging in Amsterdam.

So I thought this trip would be a lot like Paris - with moments of my day I could settle down in front of the computer and write entertaining things for you folks back home to read.

Toooootally not the case. I'm either out wandering uncontrollably, doing something I'll be needing to recover from, or recovering from said things. Soooooooo I'll let you guys know what's up when I get back.

Because there's still totally things I need to be doing right now.

Lates.

On BED2013.

I know, I've been flying under the radar lately. For someone who started out the year blogging every day, the dropoff has been significant.

I remember why I started this project with Kitty - it was to start writing again, to regain some semblance of creativity in my life. It was also to keep track of myself, since I'd just started coming out of my shell after a couple of pretty dark years. And to both ends, even though I haven't been keeping up with the project in recent months, it's served its purpose mightily.

I guess what I'm saying is if you're finding yourself in a rut, maybe give something like this a try. It's not for everyone, of course, but chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably a blogger of some sort. Get your thoughts out on paper (or what passes for paper these days). Reread what you've said, what was running through your mind a day ago, a week ago, three months ago. It helped keep me on track, helped me realize when I was floundering, helped me figure out which directions to take.

And maybe it's the friendships I've made this year, be it through work, BiSC, VEDA, or otherwise. Maybe it's just getting out of the house and getting my hands dirty again. Or maybe it's the blog. (It's probably all of the above and more.) But I feel good again. I feel like me again. And much like getting some action after a long dry spell, you never really feel the impact of that kind of thing until you're in it.

Cheers, guys. Thanks for being a part of this year. Now if you'll pardon me, I have to finish packing for my trip to Amsterdam.

Suckers.

On keeping the horizon horizontal.

In response to SweeneySays' prompt.

Define the horizon. (is it the future? is it what you want? is it what you're aiming for?)

Keep it level. (look straight ahead at it. focus on it. see it for what it is. see earth and sky, dark and light. define the path that leads you there.)

Behold the road ahead. (see the things in your way. the steps you must take, the stones must stride over, the holes you must not fall into.)

Look at the things. (with your eyes on the horizon, keep it straight. don't turn your head at the people and events in your way; see them all from the same direction, facing forward.)

Know the things. (how do they fit against the horizontal line? do they stand in your way or guide your steps?)

Measure the distance. (that which is far away seems small. know they will grow as you approach, compensate accordingly.)

Keep the horizon horizontal. (the wind resistance will lower your gaze. obstacles will alter your trajectory. lift your head. remember to refocus. keep your perspective stable.)

Walk. (never stop walking.)

On a quick note about nachos.

Whenever I get nachos at a restaurant, I'm always sad to see them pile on the toppings, then throw the cheese on top to melt in the salamander before it comes out. It always ends in sadness - the soggy chips, the having-to-use-a-forkedness that nachos, true nachos, are supposed to obviate.

If you top the chips with cheese before you put the rest of the toppings on, the tasty lipid-rich shreddings create a waterproof barrier that delays the toppings' inevitable drippage, offering the perfect balance of crisp, toasty chips with the moist deliciousness atop it. Plus the steam from the meat or beans or what have you has somewhere to go other than down.

Science.

On some days.

Some days, you wake up and you hate everything. You realize it's still icy out and you parked on the wrong side of the street, which means your door lock is probably iced over. And your back hurts and you haven't gotten a good night's sleep in days.

And then you realize that in a week and a half, you'll be in Amsterdam.

And suddenly the world sucks a little less.

On a conversation about sandwiches.

Me: I am unfamiliar with this 'love' concept. Is it a kind of sandwich?

Pigtails: Yes.

It's a sandwich someone makes for you every day and serves you in bed. It's hard to make, but it's the only sandwich you want- so they make it every day. And it's amazing.

The most amazing sandwich in the world.


Beautiful.

On Christmas decorations.

So here's what my across-the-street neighbors' decorations look like at night. (Blurry as fuck, don't bother clicking on it.)

Cute, right? Now here's what they look like during the day.

Anyone else find this mildly horrifying? I can't be the only one.

On being too old.

Pigtails and I were talking last night about the concept of being too old for something. It's strange; I've been telling myself for the last few years that I'm too old to do this or that, to wear my old leather bracelets or get a new tattoo.

But why?

Fear of societal judgement, of course, always ranks high. No one wants to be the old guy at the club. But what if you still really enjoy getting drunk and sweaty and dancing your face off? Does the fact that you're VP of Marketing automatically mean you have to cut that part of your life out? When do you get too old to bleach your hair out or eat a pile of mushrooms on a Tuesday night?

I'm not going to lie; when I dyed my hair back in August, I was afraid. Afraid my old friends would judge me for doing something I used to do all the damn time in our 20s, afraid the people at work would consider it a pathetic attempt to reclaim my youth. But instead I was presented with grins and compliments, conversations and nods of approval.

I liked who I was back in New York. Sure, I wasn't going anywhere with my life; I was coasting in a dead-end bartending position and spending most of my free time getting drunk and playing pool. But I felt comfortable in that skin, my laugh was easy, my stories vivid and real. I didn't end my time there on my terms; I was shoved forcefully into a painfully adult situation in the desolate reaches of South Jersey. I stopped drinking and going out. I stopped having fun.

And yet I can't regret the intervening years. I tried and failed to run a business. I bought a house and experienced the freedom and responsibility that comes with that. A marriage came and went, teaching me the value of commitment and when to let go of something that's just not working. I've widened my skill range exponentially, making me significantly more valuable in my field.

Now I'm back on my feet, working a job I really like. Cracking jokes and fielding questions, making people feel comfortable and warm in my care. It's reminding me of what I liked about bartending, what I liked about my past self.

So what do I care if I want to dig out the bracelets and blast Less Than Jake in my car? Sure, I want to roll out, pound whiskey, and knock some pool balls around at night, but in the mornings I'm still researching information on starting a food truck. I think it's fair to say can take a step or two back if it gives me a better place to move forward from.

On waking up.

You know that little stretch of time between when you stop sleeping and when you wake up? That little half-sleepy range where you're slightly cogent and kind of dreaming. When you think of tangled limbs and laughter, shadows and comfort and the safety in the absence of light when you're not alone.

At least that's what's in my head more often than not in those magical few minutes. It's what I smile to as my eyes open and I hear Alistair scramble for breakfast, or my phone buzzing on the empty pillow beside me.

On my crazy brain.

I'm going to talk about me for a minute. This post is going to be entirely self-indulgent and more than likely will lead to no conclusion of relevance, to me or otherwise. To be honest, it's more so I can just get these words down and out of my head.

I'm an overthinker. I always have been. Ever since I can remember, every minute of every day, I'm thinking about something. Sure, there are things I can do to slow the train down - working jobs where I have to think on my feet keeps the noise down to a dull roar as I cycle through step after step in my systems. But for the most part, my mind is almost never still.

Which comes in handy, of course. When there is need for it, it kicks into high gear. All afternoon I've been sorting out things in my head about the business I used to run, recalling everything I've learned both there and in culinary school, and evaluating what needs to be different and what needs to be learned in preparation for the next big crazy idea. A lot of pacing, muttering to an empty house. A lot of rolled-back eyes and fluttering eyelids.

But once the words are down and the email's sent, my head's still on fast forward. And without a direction, it spins out of control. I find myself fragile and neurotic, thinking about sandwich architecture one moment and the inevitable death of my beloved pets the next. I think about romance and moving and all the details of my life in between, what I can plan for, what I can steer, what eventualities and possibilities I can prepare for. I pick out names for my children and floorplans for my home.

And in the end, not much has changed. Some of these plans are old, revisitations to thoughts I've had hundreds of times before. Some are new, and join the buzzing hive always sitting in the back of my head. And I settle back on my couch to try to drown it out in television and video games, always afraid, always anxious, and always, always prepared.

On giving thanks.

I am thankful for you.

To those forged to me in blood and whiskey, stoops and attics and trials of the infinitesimal years, who know who I've been and have faith in what I will become, I am thankful for you.

To those who stand with me in the weeds, on the rail, fighting back the hordes with the grinders and the stones and the deadly smiles, I am thankful for you.

To those who taught me the way of the fire, the knife, the pint glass and milk pitcher, the spreadsheets and resource management, I am thankful for you.

To those bound to me with miles of aluminum and fiber optics, who embrace me for eight seconds and love my face, I am thankful for you.

To those of the quiet nights, the healing couch, the clouds of smoke, the wings and television screens, I am thankful for you.

To those of the loud nights, the exuberant pints and rocks glasses, the music and the clicking of billiard balls, the rush of the subway and thunder of sidewalks, I am thankful for you.

And to those who rouse me from my slumber, who take me by the hand and drag me back into the light, I am so, so thankful for you.

I love you. May you see yourselves as I see you, beautiful and bright, worthy of all the love the world can afford. May you find a home in me. When you are hungry, let me nourish you. When you are cold, let me warm you. When you are afraid and empty, let me fill you with your self, strong and confident. What I offer you is vast and powerful, for it is from you, of you, always you.

And let us stride into the black together, eyes ever on the open road. Let us grow together, our stories etched into our skin. Time marches always beautifully on, and let us march on with it. Together.

On being oneself.

What does it mean to you to be you? Can you define it? Do you have the words to explain it?

We all know the phrases. Be comfortable in your own skin. Know yourself. Do what you love, be strong and confident. We use these phrases time and time again because, I suppose, they work. Why else would we use them?

Is it like being in love? When you feel like yourself, do you find it difficult to put into words, even though you know it in your heart?

Poetry break. Wonder.

Wonder's such a fascinating word;
calling visions - eyes as wide as pie,
hearts and minds as open as your arms
that night I saw you last. I thought I heard
your laughter in the bar, the ocean's sigh,
that dream I had, the sound of my alarm.
I watch as you, with wonder, blithely roam.
I wonder if you're ever coming home.

On absence.

There is a tranquility in absence.

I'm traveling a lot lately, as I'm sure you guys already know. And to me, there's two types of travel, the aggressive absorption of diving into a city, seizing it by the tail, and making it my own, and the quiet immersion into a lack of reality. Paris, not two weeks ago, was the former.

Tonight, I begin the latter here in Myrtle Beach. My room looks out over the ocean, the steady, humble roar of the waves replacing the sticky grind of wheels on a moist street. Standing on my balcony, I see no lights, no other people living their lives behind brick and glass. I see only the black of night stretching on into the distance.

There is a peace here I forget exists sometimes.

And I've got a week to soak in it.

On whirlwinds.

Make no bones about it, it doesn't matter how crazy your brain can get; nothing's crazier than two brains working on the same idea.

Science.

(mic drop)

On work philosophy.

I learned a couple of things early on in my bartending career to be valuable words to live by when you're working behind a counter.

1) Work clean.

2) Newton's First Law. (A body in motion tends to stay in motion, a body at rest tends to stay at rest.)

Taken objectively, these two rules seem like something you'd say at a job interview to seem obnoxiously hard-working and sycophantic. But the fact is, adhering to these two rules actually makes your life significantly easier.

If you train yourself to work clean, to wipe off your tools as you go and concentrate on keeping your workspace orderly and neat, you require WAY less brain and body power to clean up at the end of your shift. Everything's where it needs to be, cleaning is light and thorough, and you get things done faster and more relaxedly than if you had a giant mess to address.

As to the First Law, try this little experiment. Cook dinner for yourself, and the instant you don't have anything cooking-related to do, take out the garbage. Then finish cooking, sit down to eat, then go sit down on the couch and watch an episode of The Office. Now take out the recycling.

So much harder, isn't it?

Just keep moving. When you finish one task, move on to the other. When you beat down a rush, set yourself up for the next one. It takes far less effort to just keep your momentum going than it does to stop and start and stop and start again. You can wear yourself out by the end of your shift by taking breaks. I'm not saying don't ever post up when you need to - hell, everyone's human, and a proper shift should take some of the jam out of your doughnut. Just don't post up if you don't need to.

So yeah, every interview I have, I make it a point to mention my work philosophy, whether they get it or not. Working hard is one thing. Anyone can work hard. But working smart is what gets you to the end of the day on time and still standing. Give it a shot, see how it works out for you.

On chili mac.

Little mini skillet, a scoop of chili on the bottom. Mac and cheese on top, tossed under the salamander to crust the top. A little sprig of herb, a wedge of bread toasted on one side to wipe out the last bits of tastiness.

Tell me you wouldn't buy that on a cold November afternoon.

On a brief glimpse into my head.

Last night, Elliott and I were drinking and smoking next to the firepit in his backyard, chatting and laughing while he played music. The air was clear, the moon fat and white in the sky, light shimmering in the clouds through the bare branches overhead.

There was a moment of quiet as we looked up into the universe. "You know why I believe in God?" he asked. I looked to him, my brow arched. "That."

I could feel the little half-grin trigger. "You know why I believe in math?" I replied as I looked back up at the swath of beauty in the Philadelphia sky. I could feel his silent question in his glance. I nodded at the same moon, the same clouds and branches with the same tranquil mien he wore. "That."

On a sudden realization.

I think I just figured out why I've only been truly, madly, crazily in love once in my life.

We didn't give a fuck about hurting each other. In part because we didn't know any better. We just fucking went for it without any regards for the consequences.

It's kind of a shame I know better now.

Paris, recap.

I wandered the streets, cold, wet, and wearing a backpack, until I just ducked into a random cafe for a baguette slathered in butter and jam.

I picked out vegetables and meats from vendors I communicated with through gestures and broken tongues without a plan. I learned the word for ribeye and ate fresh chanterelles and endive from local farms. I threw a taco party for people I don't know, sang Ben L'Oncle Soul out the window in French as we drank bottle after bottle of wine.

I danced in basements and empty bars and kitchens. I drank more tequila in one week than I have all year. I walked along the Seine, I watched the midnight light show of the Eiffel Tower, I saw the city of Paris from the top of Montmartre. I sat in silence in the courtyard behind the Louvre with absolutely nothing on my mind.

I went to a coffee shop so often they knew my drink when I walked in by the time I left. I cooked alongside a host mother from Martinique in a tiny apartment kitchen, learning her French and Caribbean recipes while her son talked about his study program in Chicago and vacations to Las Vegas and Los Angeles.

My heart swelled, my legs ached. My mind relaxed and wandered and sharpened.

I lived in Paris for a week.

Not visited. Understand the difference.

Lived.

And we'll always have the gentleman in the schoolgirl skirt to prove it.

Paris, Day 8.

Blew 60e on a cab ride to CDG this morning, caught Pacific Rim on a tiny screen embedded in the seat in front of me.

Came home to traffic on 76 and a double short mocha in a little mug I picked up for way too much at the gate.

I am home. Alistair is mulling about curiously while Zevran manically kicks at my forearm. I am full of fond memories and emotional turmoil.

I'll check in tomorrow with tales, my friends. But tonight, I'm going to make myself a pot of chili and watch TV until I pass out on the couch.

Paris, Day 6.

Sorry I haven't checked in for a few days. I've been doing me things, bumping around, having fun. But I don't want to be that kind of blogger that talks about the things they do without any substance behind it. I'll do a recap when I get back, I'm sure.

I don't want to leave. Not for the usual reasons that people say this at the tail end of their vacations - it's not a sense of escapism, a lack of a want to get 'back to reality'. It's because this city makes me feel like I can carve a life for myself here. I can build an existence that is more fulfilling, more real than my life is now.

But how much of that is Paris, and how much of that is me just being restless with the way things are right now?

I've spent the last couple of years in a fog. This year, I've been getting my legs under me, learning to stand again. Soon I'll remember how to walk, how to run.

I'm still processing. Give me a little time on this one.

Paris, Day 3.

There is a difference between rolling a city beneath your tires and feeling it beneath your feet.

There's something you miss when you just hop from location to location, something absent in the sense of the whole. When you walk the streets of a city, there is a power in them, a sense of all the shoes that came before you, walking, running, stopping dead in their tracks.

It's how I feel connected to a place. I need to walk the pathways, absorb the city slowly, let it creep through my skin and fill my blood with its pace. I need to run my fingers along the buildings, trace the toe of my boots along the cracks of the sidewalks.

Cities are my church. They make me feel small and quiet, a part of something so much bigger than myself. They remind me that every breath I draw is one of millions drawn at the same time. They give me peace, knowing that I, like so many before me, belong there.

And this, this is what gives me strength.

Paris, Day 2.

I just broke it down for The Animal - Yesterday was for arrival, getting situated, and generally shaking off the disorientation. Today's when the week really started.

Turns out Pigtails' general philosophy of 'if there's a line, it must be good', since we started off with some solid sandwiches for lunch. Nothing to write home about, of course, but as Pavel says, the key to a good sandwich is to start with good bread. And stars and garters, do the French know their bread.

They sadly don't know their coffee. But that's surmountable. Sad, but surmountable.

I've spent the rest of the day getting to know the street I'm staying on and the little nooks and crannies that surround it. Supermarket two doors down, wine shop one. (Though to be honest, I'll probably be rocking the 4euro bottles of Beaujolais-Villages at Carrefour. Seriously, this shit runs me $15-30 stateside. LOCAL WINE MOTHERFUCKERS) Open-air veggie market across the street from a world-class boulangerie, where 1.30euro nets me a crusty baguette that's so tender on the inside. And let's not forget the full-scale butcher shop around the corner.

This is exactly what I was looking for in a vacation. Past the stumbling blocks of language barriers and figuring out how to get my credit card to work, I'm riding high on the knowledge that I've got new toys to play with and a kitchen to play with them in.

Nightlife? That's what my friends are for. Me, I've got a couple of chicken legs to braise in red wine with endive and shallots. Pardonnez-moi.

Paris, Day 1.

I didn't sleep well last night. Of course, sitting upright flying through six time zones isn't really the best way to get a good night's sleep.

But I'm here. I'm wet and thirsty. I had a toasted baguette and some truly wretched coffee. I've walked through the streets of this city for two of the four hours I've been here.

And I love it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to camp out for a bit while I wait for Pigtails to get out of class, and we'll be off to get some actually good coffee.

It's going to be a good week. I can feel it in my damp, chilly bones.

On what I wanted to write about today but totally didn't.

I wanted to write about Newton's First Law of Motion and how it pertains to living your life today. I really did. And I probably will soon.

But in less than 24 hours, I'm going to be on a plane to Paris. And Pigtails is going to show me just what she's learned in the last couple of months. And I'm going to shop the open markets and cook with the ingredients the French cook with. And I'm going to try to finish a case of wine in a week.

So that's what I'll say for today. There is a limbo before and after a properly epic vacation, and I'm sitting in it now.

See you guys on the other side.

On contemplation and evaluation.

I've been doing a fair amount of thinking recently. This year was the year I reengaged with humanity, where I recovered from the expiration of things of the previous couple of years, got back out into the world, and started getting back to being me.

And I did so. Quite well, I'd like to add - made a host of new friends, connected with my community, and generally started being more of a human being.

But where do you go from here? I've found myself getting restless, craving more now that I'm back on the rails. But what? Career directions and options abound. Locations around the world flare to life on the radar. I've started asking myself what I'm missing in my life, where I want to go, what I want to do.

And always, always, there's that nagging feeling that I'm too old for this shit. That at my age, I should have at least SOME things figured out, rather than starting from square one.

But that's bullshit, isn't it? When is there ever a bad time to take stock in where you are and where you're going? When is it a bad idea to do a little self-evaluation to figure out if you're happy with what you're doing?

Now's as good a time as any, because any's a good time.

On Anthony.

A friend of mine killed himself in the last couple of days. I just found out today.

Friend's too strong a word. Acquaintance. I haven't spoken to him in ages.

He was a good kid. Unstable. Unhappy. But he had a good heart. When he laughed, it came from deep inside. I could feel it, hear the joy in it.

I won't lie. It's crossed my mind from time to time. More recently than I'd like to admit.

What pulls people back from the brink in times like this?

And why doesn't it work sometimes?

(Godspeed, Anto. For all it's worth, I hope you've found peace.)

On this month and blogging.

October marks the first significant dropoff in my attempts to blog every day this year. I'll be completely honest with you guys; I'll be damned if I know why. Something about where I am and what I'm doing hasn't put me much in a writing frame of mind.

And it's not that there aren't things to talk about. The rest of 2013 has some significant events remaining, including three major trips with family and friends. Ideas are whirling about my ever-uncertain future without plans of any kind solidifying. There is information to be gathered, knowledge to be absorbed, and a wide range of options to be considered.

The future is vast and shadowy. Terrifying and promising all at once, when certainties fall away. Once, not too long ago, I thought I had my future on lock. I had a wife, a business, a plan. Sometimes I feel like I put these strictures upon myself just to narrow the field, to make things solid so that I knew what to do next.

But things fall apart, and once more I'm standing, staring into the black, wondering where I'll put my feet next. Tomorrow, it'll be work. Next week, it'll be Paris. Next month, it'll be Amsterdam.

Next year, who knows?

On what I'm looking for.

So back in May, as I started taking those first feeble steps towards feeling ready to enter the dating world again, a certain The Animal gave me a list of questions to answer about what I'm looking for. An honest evaluation of what I want, what I need.

She also demanded I finish it by the end of the summer, and we can see how well that went. (cough)

Anyway. It's been on my mind lately, so now seems as good a time as any to fill it out. To be honest, I'm kind of curious as to what my answers are going to be. This is likely to be incomplete, and probably going to shift and tweak as time goes on. But it's a good snapshot of where I am now.

How does she inspire you?
She does the things I wish I did. When she sets her eyes on something, she goes for it, and I can either stand by and watch or dive in and follow suit. She reminds me that I'm capable, I'm impulsive, and the blocks I throw up in my mind are just that - in my head. She has the courage and drive to live her life, and in so doing, inspires me to live mine.

What's she made of?
Fire. She burns bright and clear with nothing to hide. People are drawn to her light and warmth - her passion is infectious, spreading to everything she touches. There is a hunger in her, an insatiable curiosity in everything around her. She is wise enough to be strong, smart enough to be quick, and crazy enough to be dangerously capricious. She is ardent; and be it in anger or love, she burns hot - not because she can, but because she must.

What does she see in her future?
Adventure. I get bored easily, and so does she. While she values a place to hunker down and recharge, she's not content to remain there day after day, year after year. She'd rather study all aspects of a field of work than single-mindedly climb a corporate ladder. Money, to her, is a tool - valuable to gather and hold for the experiences it can afford rather than a number to be shored up at the cost of missing out.

What's her relationship with her family?
Strong. Family is the first chance you get to love people in spite of, and sometimes because of, their flaws. I consider myself very close to my family and I miss my parents every day; there's a depth of emotion and forgiveness that I'm comfortable with as a result, and I'd like to know that she can understand and appreciate that.

Does she want children? Do you want children?
She does. Perhaps not right away; she must acknowledge the amount of planning and sacrifice that goes into raising a child, and be prepared to make that choice. I may be close to that point, but I'm not there quite yet.

And when the time comes, I want it to be a mutual decision, with the knowledge and confidence in each other that we're both in it with everything we've got. My parents did everything they could for my brothers and I, and I want to offer my children the same level of devotion.

How does she challenge you?
She forces me to be true. Rare is the time when I don't dodge and weave, hiding this or that from this person or that person because this piece of information might hurt them, or that bit might change the way they think of me. She sees through my web of misdirects and decoys and calls me out when I'm trying to hide something. She makes it okay to be truthful and clear with her, and more importantly, with myself. No matter how uncomfortable that makes me feel.

How does she treat you?
Like a partner. I can trust her to have my back no matter what comes our way, and she feels the same. She takes the lead when I fall back, and she recognizes when I can handle something she can't. We have faith in each other because we've seen each other not at our best, but at our worst. She is kind to me when I am weak, forceful with me when I am hesitant, appreciative of me when I am good, and honest with me when I'm being a dick.

What does she live for?
First and foremost, herself. She knows that to water the garden, one must tend to the well. She knows herself, what she is capable of, what she wants out of life, and she does her best not to compromise any of that for anyone.

Beyond that, she lives for experience. She is hungry for adventure; she appreciates the value of laughter and fun and all the wonder the world has to offer, big and small. She lives for memories and stories, hers, ours, and others'. She lives for the simple joy food and drink can afford, the quiet moment in a cafe, the people walking by in a city street, the sunset over a mountain range or an ocean.

How do you want to be in a relationship?
Honest and free. I don't have to worry about what I can and can't tell her, what I can or can't do for fear of repercussions. Too much of my life has been caged in lies and secrets, and I want at least one place in my life I can be safe.

How does she manage her emotions?
She communicates. She's not afraid to tell me what's on her mind as it happens. And even if there isn't anything I can do about it at the moment, she lets me know how she's feeling and her best ideas as to why. She offers clarity of herself in boundaries and feelings. If she wants to talk about what's happening, she knows I'm ready of ear and mouth. And if she doesn't, she knows I'm here with a shoulder or a pair of arms.

Who does she want to be?
Anything and everything she can.

On playing pool.

They say once you learn something, you never really forget it.

They say when you stop doing something on a regular basis, your skill with it rapidly declines.

They're right, you know. Both camps.

Several years ago, I played pool a lot. I mean, a lot. I'd like to think I was fairly good at it. But ever since I've left New York, there just hasn't been a place for me to play, to keep my skills sharp.

Sure, I played a game here and there in the intervening years. My muscles remembered what it was like; they could replicate shots, my eyes kind of knew what to look for, what angles to hit. But whether it was upstairs in the Grape Room or at a little joint on the strip in Vegas, I never could quite get back in the groove.

Yesterday I hung out with my old pool team. I watched players I knew well and players I didn't know at all get down on shot after shot like I used to, take breaths like I used to, line up and bank and coach and railslide and backspin and plan like I used to.

Tonight I'm in Pericles' basement. Tonight I'm accessing that dusty corner of my brain that really remembers this shit, remembers that you have to visualize the angle and follow the lines, that remembers what spin gives you what leave. And I'm realizing that I haven't been using this all the times I've played in the last couple of years. I've been playing half-cocked, playing without a full hand.

I don't really know what I'm saying, I guess. I just cleaned the table for both sides with two missed shots, and it was easy. I could map things out, measure and leave shot after shot. All I had to do was dig out the old data on how.

It's in there, you know. The things you used to do. Play an instrument, cook a dish, fix a radiator, balance a checkbook, care about another person. You just have to reach back into that cavernous well in your head and haul it back into the light.

On Zevran.

I love my cat
because
when he sits outside the shower waiting for me
when he climbs on my shoulders to chew on my hair
when he plays fetch with wild-eyed, manic abandon
when he clambers under the blanket to nestle in the crook of my arm
when he chases his tail in a patch of sunlight
No matter how much I want to
I never, ever know
I never will know
what's going through that little head of his.

But he trusts me.

On a note to a woman I miss.

When you left, I didn't have the tools to say goodbye. I wasn't ready.

I know this because I have them now, lying next to the bookshelf with the card games and the cookbooks. I know where they are when I need them because I've had to use them so many times since you've left.

You were worried about me. You had good cause to worry. We didn't know how I'd turn out. But I grew up strong, like you. I grew up soft, like you. I wake up in the mornings wondering what the day will bring, wondering what I'll eat, wondering who I'll talk to. And I am glad for it. All of it. Like you.

I can miss you. I can wish you were here to see me now, to see the son you raised. But it will never change the carvings on that little stone in Mahwah, never alter that date etched in the earth.

I wish you could see where I am. I wish you could meet the people I'm with. It's a good place; they are good people. But all I can do is remember that I am your child, your baby boy, and assume that you are at peace.

On that happening.

So I finally saw Inception.

On pop music today.

So I caught the video to Britney Spears' 'Work Bitch' this morning. Not really sure why, but I kind of wish I hadn't. Could have spent that time talking to someone I actually like talking to.

Is this what pop music's turned into these days? Lyrics that sound like they've been shit out of a slant rhyme generator, two melodies with little, if any variation? Has sexy turned into slow-mo, bedazzled bikinis, hip thrusts, and a hint of BDSM to seem edgy? Have we just given up on the proper use of a comma?

I feel like we've gotten significantly less subtle. To celebrate this, I'm just going to walk around all day shouting how I feel at whoever crosses my path.

HEY

HEY I'M HUNGRY

On a weary Monday.

I would genuinely like to have the energy to write a full-on post right now. I really would. I've got several things on my mind - one thing in particular regarding verbal processing and events in my and others' lives at the moment.

But I had bad sleep last night. And a long day at work. And a lovely dinner in a lovely home. And I just booked a goddamn houseboat.

So I'll hope I can write tomorrow, even though I should definitely make cat food. And I'll bid you guys goodnight for now.

And to two people very dear to me who are going through some rough times, my heart goes out to you, and my arms are always open. Thinking of you, guys. Wishing there was anything I could say that could make things better.

On my spirit animal.

So I have a spirit animal. I'm not really into the whole pagan belief system, but as a writer and a general nutcake, I'm fond of symbolism and a general sense of connectedness to the rest of the universe.

Of course, one doesn't just choose a spirit animal. According to the interwebs, a spirit animal chooses you - perhaps it shows up often in your life in a condensed amount of time, or characteristics of the beast manifest itself in your behavior. To Pericles (his own spirit animal being the rooster), the defining moment is when the animal speaks to you in a dream.

Now, the Floopness had been calling me Catfish for years. It's a nickname that arose because when I forgot to shave, my exceptionally scant beard would start poking out of my cheeks like whiskers. Perhaps that's why I'd always been fond of the regal bottom-feeder, and that's why it was on my mind as I went to sleep the night of my second bachelor party.

And maybe it was because I had ordered my wedding band with the word 'Catfish' inscribed on the inside that day, or maybe it was the fistful of mushrooms I'd eaten, but the catfish came to me that night. I was underwater, but not drowning. It was dark, but I could feel the riverbed beneath my ass. And out of the shadows came a fish, face broad and widemouthed, whiskers trailing from its cheeks like tendrils in the night. And he spoke, in a deep, rumbling voice that filled the waters around us.

"It's cool, man. It's cool."

And that was it. My brain moved on to other dreams until Zev stepped on my head to wake me up. I felt no change in who I was or where I was going in life. But I had a spirit animal.

And does it suit? I like to think so. I like to sit in the shadows like Batman; I like to devour the things that people have forgotten. I like to lie, cloaked in murk, watching and feeling the world flow over me, around me. And when I act, I like to think it is with purpose and alacrity, sure and powerful. I would probably be delicious in a cornmeal crust.

We all draw connections where we want to see them. It's in our nature, our attempts to make sense of the world around us. And things like this are like astrology; it's fun to think about, and it has exactly as much impact in our lives as we allow it to. Perhaps there is a deeper meaning to it, more likely there isn't.

But still, there's a part of me that looks forward to lying lazily on the banks of the Mississippi, belly full and eyes glazed, ears half-listening to street jazz and people, watching the world go by with one thought in my head: "It's cool, man. Everything's cool."

On losing someone.

We don't talk about it, I guess.

The big stuff, yeah, of course. The obvious stuff. It comes up from time to time, maybe with other people they left behind. Moments of commiseration, remembering them, maybe, or just talking in vague terms and ideas about how we feel.

But we don't talk about the little stuff. The things we keep around, the things we wear to remind us of them. The conversations we have with them in our heads when we're alone, the times we curl up in bed in the afternoons, when no one's around, to cry.

And it's because when someone dies, so too does your relationship with them. And that relationship was unique, specific to the dynamic you and you alone had with that person. You can describe it all you want, as loudly and often as you want, but never, never will you be able to make someone else understand what it means to you.

And so we don't talk about it. We sit in our memories, trying our best to remember what it was like. Afraid, always afraid that we are remembering things differently, incorrectly. Wondering how much of it was real, and how much we've made up in the intervening years.

On a compliment.

Today, a customer told me that I "move like a New Yorker". That I moved faster than she'd ever seen, cycled through tasks rapidly, and talked to multiple people at once without breaking a sweat.

That might have been the best compliment I've received at work yet. I'm getting all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

On muh.

There is no reason on Earth I should be this tired after the lack of amount of work I've done today.

For serious.

On Scotch eggs.

Boiled egg.

Wrapped in sausage.

Breaded and deep-fried.

That's all a Scotch egg is. Served hot or cold, solid or runny, it's an age-old bar food and breakfast snack from across the pond. Deceptively simple in its construction and execution, but still, so many factors to consider.

The egg must be boiled if its shape is to hold, but chilled to avoid overcooking. The sausage layer cannot be too thick, lest you risk uncooked meats in contact with the egg. The breading must be golden-brown, not burnt to a crisp while the whole thing cooks.

And when eaten, what a symphony these three elements compose! The toothsome crunch of the fried, the juicy runoff of the sausage, the tender bite of the egg. Should you choose soft-boiled (as I always prefer), you are absolved of a yolky mess if the white tears, for you have a shell of sausage and fried to contain it.

Situations are never just as easy as adding each element together. It's important to remember how each element interacts with another. Orson Scott Card once wrote that writing a new character wasn't just creating the character itself, but understanding how that character reacts to the others. That two characters are really three, that three are really six. It's what makes a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Whether you're changing up a recipe or writing a story, thinking of a new hire or getting a new pet, think about not just what brings change, but the changes it will bring.

If you want to think big, start small. And maybe grab yourself a Scotch egg to mull over.

On being a part of something.

There's nothing quite like it. Me, I'm pretty awesome. I have little doubt about that. But I am so much better when I'm part of something bigger than myself.

Tonight, High Point threw a party to celebrate the wholesale division in the space it'll occupy. And it was fucking incredible. It's impossible to not get caught up in the energy of something new, even if I know the dirty secret behind it - that the next few months will be grueling and stressful for our fearless leaders.

It will be brutal. It will test us all. But goddamn if I wouldn't have it any other way. I will play my part with every ounce of earnesty I have left in these bones, and fuck all if we won't turn out on top.

Cheers, fuckers. I have a future again.

On downfalls.

I think one of the downfalls to having been through some shit is that you're never completely sure how something will affect you. Sometimes, a traumatic experience leaves you with the perspective to face down an otherwise rough situation with an unusual steadiness and perspective. Sometimes, something as innocuous as a song or a look on someone's face is enough to send you spiraling.

I watched a video today of a soldier coming home to surprise his son, and something stabbed at my chest as I saw the young boy run to his father's arms. Even now, the thought of it is prickling at the back of my eyes.

But why? My father was no soldier, no hero. We never were very close, despite what I am certain were his best efforts. I never really did anything he could watch and be proud of. He loved me, and I loved him, and we left it at that.

And yet, if I were to turn around right now to see him standing on the sidewalk, would I cry? Would wracking sobs spill from my lips as I, half-blind from tears, ran to his embrace?

I would. I know I would.

On a home.

For the first time in a long time, my brain's moving too fast for me to catch everything. Used to be a time where I'd struggle for things to write about daily - nowadays, it's picking one idea to blog. Already I know there are three things I wanted to talk about that have since slipped my mind.

I spent the afternoon hanging out at the cafe, intending to get some work done on my ever-lengthening to-do list. And one by one, people filtered in to speak of ships and shoes and sealing wax. Hours went by with elbows resting on concrete tabletops as we talked of cats and travel and things that needed to be done, and I remembered what it was like to be a part of a community, to see faces I recognized and hear stories I'd heard before.

This was why I wanted to work where I work now. It's a nerve center for our quiet little neighborhood, a gathering place to hear tales fantastic and mundane, to whisper and chuckle, to shake hands and grin. I hear my name called from car windows as I walk down the street. It's a feeling I haven't had since TriBeCa.

I have a home again. And strangely, with that sensation comes the overwhelming hunger, the wanderlust banging at my sternum.

Perhaps not strangely. After all, it's easiest to start walking when you finally have both feet on the ground.

On people.

I need people.

Sounds a little self-deprecating, needy, co-dependent, I know. But it's true. I'm a strange creature. My self is simple, a piano line on repeat. And I've always had Pavel backing me up on trumpet, playing counterpoint. Pericles laying down a punctuating baritone on trombone. The Count on rhythm guitar, steady and strong.

It got quiet for a time. I couldn't hear the others. I faded back, a line in the dark, playing the same thing over and over, despondent and desperate. I'd forgotten how to be interesting, how to move and shift with the strains around me. Inflexible and sad, empty and interminable.

But I remember now, as Jon strums out on the ukelele, as Elliot lays down the beat on the kit. I can hear Pigtails singing across the river, doing her own thing, but always strangely in tune with the rest of it.

And all of it, old and new, it adds complexity. It adds color. It changes things, forces me to think, to dream again. It makes me sharp, cycles through thoughts and ideas I haven't used in ages. Makes me stronger, makes me faster.

I am just one line in the air on repeat. It is the people around me that make me beautiful.

On a paradigm shift.

The season is shifting, and it brings with it change.

It's strange to leave some things behind with the heat and humidity of summer; some passings are sad, some less so. But the path ahead is rich with miles and knowledge and people, so I have no right to complain.

A year ago I was a wreck, still. All kinds of broken and strange, with little hope and less motivation. Things have changed since then - unexpected recoveries of things I thought I'd lost. Friends, good friends that I enjoy spending time with and take a truthful interest in. I have direction. I have momentum.

Every life has its ups and downs; this is a truth as old as humanity. It's easy to lose sight of that, to forget that after a low point, there's still time to reclaim to highs.

And I have time. Perhaps not much, but more than I thought I did. I have a new standard. I have new ideas.

And that itch in my bones is back.

On themes.

So I started blogging every day this year for a multitude of reasons, amongst them dusting off my toolkits and keeping track of my thought patterns. I've been idly paging through my posts for the year, and I'm starting to notice some trending themes in the things I have to say. And here they are!

1. "Do what the fuck you want."

2. "Recipes are for bitches."

3. "I'm sad sometimes, but I'm getting better."

I mean, really? You guys actually stick around for this drivel?

On an incomplete thought.

I started saying something to Jim last night that I was too drunk to articulate. The moment's passed, of course, but it bears saying. In part because if I don't, I'm just going to keep repeating it to myself like a crazy man, because that's what I do.

"Dude, she's leaving. And who knows what'll happen there. Best case scenario, it works out until one of 'em dies. Nothing lasts, man, nothing lasts.

"So quit fucking bitching and get out there. There's not a lot of time, man, and if you're not doing what's making you happy, get the fuck out there and change it. I mean, fuck all - I love sitting at home, getting lit, and playing video games until I pass the fuck out. You hear me? I fucking love it. It's one of my favorite fucking things to do. But if you're doing that and it isn't making you happy, get the fuck off your couch and go do something that does.

"Whether you're spending your time sitting in your underwear shooting guys or in the arms of someone you actually like, make sure it's what you want to be doing. Because fuck it. What else are you supposed to be fucking doing?"

On remembering.

Never forget, they say.

On where I'm at today.

Man, I've been slacking this month so far. Sorry about that, guys.

Today's one of those days. It's sunny, markedly temperate outside. I've been sitting on my porch a lot this morning, surfing the interwebs, interspersed with taking care of stuff around the house. I've spent a little time watching the planes in the air, leaving white trails in their wake as they ship dozens of us from one place to the next.

We are small. In the grand scheme of things, we are insignificant, blips in the timeline. For the vast majority of us, the things we say, the things we write, the things we do won't really make much of a difference. And there is a peace in knowing this, a release from anxiety to be found.

Much like my lack of belief in an afterlife, it offers a certain perspective, a sense of the present. I've wrestled for years coming to terms with the fact that I'm just going to have to take life as it comes, that there are so many variables and options ahead that striving and drive won't get me to where I want to be. And I don't recommend it for most of you. It's a low-key life without much success. But it works for me.

But for now, at least, I can take the time to enjoy this life. And I don't mean to say I want to live life partying every night and plowing through each day with reckless abandon. But I like to think that I take joy in the things I do. A little laundry, minding the recycling. Making cat food, taking out the garbage. Sometimes these things just feel like tasks; I forget the simple satisfaction of fitting all the dishes in the dishwasher or wiping the counter clean.

It's okay to log those hours getting stuff done. It's okay to fuck up now and again. Because we are small, and it's not that big a deal as long as we're not just being dicks for no good reason.

Do what you can. Don't forget to enjoy yourself as you go. Because if you worry so much that it sucks the happiness out of your life, what's the point of living?

That's where I'm at today, anyway.

Cheers.

On the weather.

Holy fuck, it's nice out there today.

On FreshDirect.

So FreshDirect finally came here to Philadelphia. For those of you unaware of what that is, it's an urban grocery delivery service, a system whereby you order and pay online, then choose a delivery time for your food. It's incredibly useful for the average busy-slash-lazy person who doesn't have the time-slash-energy to go to the damn store and pick shit out themselves.

I dodged it for a while, and I wasn't really sure why. After all, I used it all the damn time in New York. And perhaps that was my reasoning; my life here in Philly is different from those days, and in a way, I wanted to leave that behind. Not because it was a bad time in my life - quite the contrary; living in New York City was the beating heart of my early adulthood. But here in Philly, I'm older, arguably more responsible, more in tune with myself and the people around me. Things have changed. My back hurts, I have to worry about my lawn. I go to the co-op now to pick out what I need for dinner.

Echoes back to my life are painful. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing; it filters your memories, leaving you wistful for halcyon days, leaving you with questions about where you are and what you've become. It's something I've wrestled with for years, leaving the big city behind (on some pronouncedly shitty terms, no less) for a dying father, a dissolving marriage, and a failed business.

But here's the thing. Time marches onward. And there's nothing you can really do about it. You can either sit around and wish things could be the way they used to be or take the time to really appreciate where you are today and where you're going tomorrow.

And maybe that's why I've dodged FreshDirect for so long. I didn't want to sit in front of my computer, remembering all the times I ordered a skirt steak for Pericles and I to grill off at our apartment in Brooklyn. I didn't want to browse through the onion selection remembering sitting at the counter in TriBeCa in the hazy halogen light.

But here, now, that's not what I'm doing. I'm sitting in the house I bought, trading suspicious eyes with a cat that's never known life in New York, debating ordering a 10 lb. sack of chicken thighs to set up a fried chicken party.

Because some things change, and some things don't. And why would you waste the time thinking too hard about it when you could be frying chicken?

On living on the fly.

So as we speak, I'm roasting off an eggplant. See, I'd gotten it last week as part of my box, and I didn't have too much of a plan for it. So I rooted around in my spice cabinet, found some cardamom and cloves and paprika, rounded up some ground beef and decided I'd put a Mediterranean spin on some chili.

And I won't be eating it alone, since I decided as I rolled into work that I hadn't seen my buddy Elliot in a while, and if Jon was going to be coming over to wrangle some online stuff anyway, I might as well turn it into a gathering. A couple of misfit coworkers later, and I had a chili and beer night going by the time I got off work.

And I wonder what it would be like if I had to get up to catch the 8:15 into the city tomorrow, if I knew full well I had two more days of work before the weekend. If, in order to have a night like this, I'd have to make plans a week ahead of time, calling friends, making sure they were available, planning for a Saturday to make sure everyone was well-rested after their office lives.

What would I be like if I planned my work outfits ahead? If I had to worry about the 10am meeting with Marketing? If I had my dinners mapped out on my calendar, ingredients carefully sectioned off in my fridge?

Would I be roasting off an eggplant at 6:45, sipping a beer on my porch, unaware of what the night ahead held for me?

Would I be this happy?

On getting back on the bike.

Uh, whoops. I forgot how to blog every day, apparently. Bear with me while I regain my bearings.

On a return.

Aaand we're back. For those of you who were wondering where I've been all month, I've been participating in VEDA, a lovely vlogging project that, as its name implies, takes place every day in August. You can check out my YouTube channel if you're curious what I look and sound like while spouting drivel. It's a fun time.

So now, after a month of writing poetry and a month of scripting, shooting, and editing videos, I find myself back in front of a keyboard, staring at a blank white field, wondering what I should write. And it's not that I don't have a pile of things to write about - summer, despite it being my least favorite season, seems to be a season of change and growth for me no matter how much I try to suppress it and just hide in my air-conditioned house drinking beer and playing video games. It's more that I can't really figure out where to begin.

But begin I shall, for there is always something to be said. It feels good to get back to 'normal', I suppose, smithing phrases and sentences instead of lines and facial expressions. I'll start catching you guys up tomorrow.

For now, though, I'm going to stand outside and watch the rain come tumbling down, and quietly celebrate the advent of fall with a smile and a cup of coffee.

Cheers, guys. Welcome back.

VEDA, Day 1.

It's August!

And that means it's time for VEDA. For those who don't know (and are too lazy to click the link), VEDA is a magical time of legend and song, when internetters from around the world gather to vlog about stuff and love each others' faces. It's a wacky, globe-spanning community of nerds and misfits and other such folk. I highly recommend it.

This also means that my blogs this month are coming in the format of videos. Soooooooo in your faces.

Bam.

NDSL, Day 29.

August comes; with eager eyes,
With bated breath and souls to bare,
We are of all the world comprised.
I love your faces. See you there.

(VEDA approaches. Get there.)

NDSL, Day 27.

Ruminate, deliberate, consider your next move;

Con and counter-conversate until you hit your groove.

Keep on, carry on and smile at those that disapprove.

NDSL, Day 26.

I'm reminded now and then

(take for example, this trip south)

That there are different sorts of men

Who need to shut their fucking mouth.

NDSL, Day 24.

Inappropriate affect, I hear it's called.
Laughter in the face of something wrong -
A last-ditch leap to hope that you are strong
when all that's left to do is fall-

NDSL, Day 23.

Every time I wash myself my cat gets on my back,

Purring madly as he rubs against my head and ears -

Claiming me in cattish way. And though it's crossed my mind,

I shouldn't do the same to you - I feel it might be weird.

NDSL, Day 22.

The colors brighten up. The rain feels wetter.
It never goes away, but you get better.

NDSL, Day 20.

Poems (good ones, anyway) are designed to stretch the head;
Apologies - I think I'd rather dog this 'steak instead.

NDSL, Day 19.

On this day, a woman came to be.
Keen of mind, of style irreplicate,
Open both of heart and arms to me.
For that and so much more, we celebrate.
You laugh, you lead the charge as we press on,
You are the light to whom we all are drawn.

NDSL, Day 18.

Longer does one slumber, longer one slips down the hole,
Anxiety, a lack of balance. The absence of control.

NDSL, Day 17.

A common thought, but one I feel should be repeated:
Maybe beauty isn't how we look, but how we're treated.

NDSL, Day 16.

Hungry, weary, trying writing,
Heat-baked, but you're short on time?
Vomit words into the ether;
See if any of them rhyme.

NDSL, Day 15.

Perhaps it makes me pampered.
Perhaps it makes me weak.
But judging from the weather,
Outside can fuck itself this week.

NDSL, Day 14.

Saddened that I'm not surprised, my faith is falling flat.
I stop; I put the world away, and snuggle with my cat.

NDSL, Day 12.

(holy wine drunk.) Stop a minute,
Realize the state you're in,
Look around you, valuate it;
Soak in the amount of win.

NDSL, Day 11.

I miss your stare of cold disdain,

  You wore it like a glove.

Don't look at me like that, my dear-

  Like something you could love.

NDSL, Day 10.

Like a pocket moist from rain
Wrong, but functioning just fine
For now. Or bacon, cooked, but floppy,
Not quite right; I won't decline
A bite. Or wouldn't. Maybe. And that's
How I was. I didn't show it
Until now - terse and tense -
Still not fine, except I know it.

NDSL, Day 9.

The flavor of a cold one correlates to many things:

Free's a taste exceeded only by a stolen's spring,

But beer at work? There's a savor sweet enough for kings.

NDSL, Day 8.

A wall of stone, a battered cage,

The burning outline of a ghost,

And iron, rusted, silent, dead.

You make a bigger dent than most.

NDSL, Day 7.

grinning through the excrement and laughing through the fall
marching through the agony, from staggering to crawl
reaching out, one chuckle left, with nothing left to scrawl

NDSL, Day 6.

Weary days like these are those that feed hermitic rants:
Fuck the sun, the open air. But most of all, fuck pants.

NDSL, Day 5.

Beware the ides? Honey. Listen,
  After all that's come to pass,
Any day that ends in 'day's
 A proper day to watch your ass.

NDSL, Day 4.

Bored and tired. Same as same; I guess things could be worse.

At least I'm in a coffee shop instead of in a hearse.

NDSL, Day 3.

Joy's a funny thing.  I've mine; to yours, a bended ear.

A swollen heart to hear it, but a wish that you were here.

NDSL, Day 2.

I'd like a life without too many lies.
A quiet death, and all that it implies.

NDSL, Day 1.

It occurs to me that I actually started doing something like this almost exactly a year ago, before I started blogging or even before I was (particularly) active on Twitter. It was just as Facebook status updates, and I eventually phased myself out of it as The Animal dragged me kicking and screaming into VEDA. Which is totally coming up in a month. Shit, I should get ready for that.

Anyway. The moral of this story is that I'm going to kick off with the same couplet that I started with a year ago. Partly because I like it, partly because it works as a starting point, and mostly because I've got to get up early tomorrow and all I want to think about right now is the burger that's GrubHubbing its way to me as we speak.


Never there's a start in life that isn't born of pain.
The day that you lose everything, you've everything to gain.

On a little project.

So I feel like I've reached a nice little plateau. I still have my ups and downs, but the lows aren't as vastly chasmous as they have been in recent years - they're usually just exhaustion and stress-induced now, which is a pleasant level of normalcy that I can appreciate.

When I started this blog up at the beginning of 2013, it was with the intention of writing more. Sure, it was to document the bits and pieces of this particular year of my life, but its primary purpose was to get my brain back in gear when it came to putting words together. And I feel like I've made progress; Lis has always told me 'Never a day without a line', and I've got a pretty good percentage so far.

I feel like I need to take a break from spouting platitudes and babbling about the minutia of my daily life, so with the upcoming new month, I figured I'd try something different. Some of you might know that the only degree I ever got around to finishing was in Poetry (yes, feel free to laugh, I do) - it's been on my mind as of late, pursuant to recent conversations with coworkers and regulars of mine. I've always enjoyed it; good poetry does some great things with the music of language, not to mention the exercises in brevity, meaning, and wit.

And if I'm going to be shaking the dust off of my writing, I may as well get back into something I used to call myself a specialist in. So I'm going to spend the month of July writing poetry. It'll almost always just be a couplet each day, maybe a quatrain if an idea needs more expansion. Maybe I'll throw a sonnet in there for funsies if I get a day off. Shit might get crazy around here; you never know.

And I know it's short notice, but I'd love for you guys to join me, if you're so inclined. You don't have to do every day, and you sure as shit don't have to follow in my structured footsteps. Just play with your words and see what happens. C'mon, it'll be fun.

Nulla dies sine linea.

On getting ready for today.

I'm feeling properly strange today. I'm bored, but I'm too tired to do something about it. I want to write, but the right gears aren't turning. There's a lot of cleaning and organizing to be done, but I don't have the focus to get it done.

Lawn. Haircut. Litterbox. The words bounce around in my head like ping pong balls in the dryer. The dishes stare at me from the sink. You don't leave for work for another hour. What are you doing?

Fuck off, dishes. Not now.

Then when? When you get back from work? Because you're full of energy then.

Seriously, dishes, shut up.

Hot coffee was a bad idea. It's thick outside, thick with that stupid Northeast humidity and sunlight, thick with the sound of a weedwhacker three lawns over as I peer at my black car with black leather seats from my porch. It's been sitting in the sun all morning, and I know which curses I'll be muttering as I get into it.

I know what I want to do tonight, and I hate that I probably won't get to do it. I hate all the steps between me and this plan, hate the hours that span the difference stuck doing what I enjoy doing, but do nothing to bring me closer to my selfish little goal.

Hate's a strong word. Maybe not hate.

Zevran nips at my ankles, his little monkeyface begging me to stay home, to hide away from responsibility and disappointment and fatigue. All he wants is a little affection, a quiet afternoon on the couch peppered with drowse and the occasional snack. Me too, Zev. Me too.

But not today. And I trundle off upstairs, laptop in hand, wondering what I can listen to in the shower that stands a chance at improving my mood.

On an old favorite.

It's been a while since I've taken the time to leaf through my old books, but recent conversations have had me thinking about poetry. I found an old gem, something that still makes my scalp prickle every time I read it. I don't even really know why; it just always lingers in my head.

So I'm gonna feed it to you. In your face.

Lying Beneath a Maple Tree (for Pat)

Robert K. Johnson

Thirteen, I was pulled so deep

  into the countless shades of green

found in the sun-hazed leaves,

  I wanted this lush sight to mean

even more than its bountiful self.

  And it did. When we first met, I knew -

in one breath - those glistening leaves

  were a foreshadowing of you.

On a few things I've learned today.

1. There's a strong possibility that my manic behavior is a defense mechanism. Will have to collect more data on that front.

2. Corny as it sounds, sacking up and doing something is always better than whining about all the reasons you shouldn't.

3. Even tired as hell, I can make some devastatingly good corn fritters without a recipe.

4. I should really get some white plates at some point.

5. I sure as shit am not doing dishes tonight.

On a day in the future.

Today, I'm looking forward to a day in the future. A day when I explain to my grandspawn why today was such a good day, why they should ask Aunties Soo and Jana for help with their report on DOMA. How back then, back when we still had seasons and Texas was still part of the United States, 'progress' was known as 'change', and there were people who feared it as much as there were people who welcomed it with open arms.

And then I'll try to explain what handwriting was, and how it predated fonts. And I'll ask for help operating the vorpal toilet for the fiftieth time.

And that day, like today, will be a good day.

On a Raoul Day.

I just woke up from a three-hour nap, and I feel fucking fantastic.

I should clarify. I don't feel full of zest for life. I'm not bursting with energy, ready to take on the world. Quite the opposite, really - I'm groggy and sluggish, with a weird taste in my mouth and that full-body itch that's telling me I probably should have showered at some point today. But I'm calm and relaxed. I don't have that weird kink in my neck, and my old-man backache seems to have subsided.

For today, at long last, I am having a Raoul Day.

What is a Raoul Day, you ask? (I know you didn't; but I'm going to talk about it anyway, because suck it, it's my blog.) It is a day that fulfills the following criteria:

1. I have off from work.
2. I have off from work tomorrow, too.
3. There is no reason to leave the house.
4. There is no reason to interact with another human being.
5. Besides feeding the cats, there is no responsibility that needs to be addressed today.

At first glance, these qualifications seem fairly easy to attain, yes? But it's deceptive. In my line of work, meeting criteria 1 and 2 is not a weekly guarantee. 3 requires preparation; supplies must be acquired - paper towels, food, drink. A Raoul Day can be derailed with something as simple as running out of cranberry juice.

4 is important. Even though I've maintained several conversations over the course of today, they've all been via text message, Twitter, or Gchat. I've used my voice only to mutter nonsense to my cats or activate my Kinect. And 5 is a tricky thing to do. See, I have tons of stuff to take care of - a pile of writing to catch up on, a lawn that is hilariously out of control (seriously, it's kind of awesome at this point), appointments to make. Even cooking things I was planning to cook.

But the key element in all of this is this call and response:

"Do I really have to get that done today?"
"Fuck it."

Will I get everything I need to get done tomorrow? Probably not. The pragmatist in me is looking at the weather reports (ballsack hot) and the list of things to do (collards, broccoli, and chard? My ass) and knowing full well that I'm going to have to foist some of these responsibilities on future days off. But the crucial point in a proper Raoul Day is the security in knowing that even though I have to get shit done, I don't have to get shit done right now.

And that, my friends, is a powerful thing. It can unclench muscles you didn't know were tight. It can provide perspective you didn't know you needed. An entire day of guilt-free relaxation is incredibly difficult to find in this madcap existence - to the point where I've had to actually force myself to have them.

Know what my schedule is for the rest of the day?
1. Play Borderlands.
2. When I get hungry, eat something.
3. If I get bored, switch off to TV.
4. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I haven't had a Raoul Day in four weeks. And it'll be another week and a half before maybe I get another one. These days are to be treasured, cherished for their rejuvenating qualities. Call it a Recharge Day, a Mental Health Day, call it what you will. But if you don't already practice this beautiful ritual on the regular, give it a shot - don't change out of your PJs, forget where you left your keys. Because this shit is the tits.

On this weekend.

There is a satisfaction, for me at least, with the conclusion of a journey well-executed. This weekend was one of long drives and friendships, whether they were strengthened through time spent talking, acquired through alcohol and laughter, or simply basked in in the sharing of one hell of a party.

And all of this is in no way diminished by the tranquil enjoyment of where I am as I write this - sprawled out on my couch in the semi-silence of my home, cats nuzzling at my arms, my phone buzzing with texts as I flip through my tabs to catch up on Facebook and Twitter.

Happiness, I believe, is a careful balance of wants and haves. Too many haves and one becomes complacent, then bored. Too many wants and one becomes dissatisfied and angry, or worse, despondent and hopeless.

Today, I am happy. I have people in my life again, good people, funny people. I want a pizza and a good night's sleep.

I think this is a pretty good balance for now.

On your people.

Keeping it short today, as it's a certain Animal's birthday party and I have to go get drunk at an unreasonably early hour. But it's because of this incipient event that I have the topic for this post. See, last night, we had Philly, NYC, Boston, Toronto, Chicago, and DC repping hard at one little table at the bar. We laughed, we ripped on each other, we mocked poor Tom relentlessly for being Canadian.

In this day and age, we're finding more and more that 'our people' are out there, regardless of physical proximity. It's a good feeling - not just to stave off the loneliness of thinking no one out there gets us (though that's a valuable thing in and of itself), but to know that there's people out there you don't have to filter yourself for. You can just drop metaphorical trou and let it ride.

Now, this might not sound like that big of a deal. But stop and think a minute; when was the last time you could really, really just be yourself?

On a little prayer for you.

May your story be a good one.

May you know your origins, for better or for worse. May you understand where you came from; may you think about and appreciate what motivates you and why.

May the conflicts in your tale come hard and fast. Let them shake you to your core and break you down. May your decisions be difficult, may making them force you to question who you are. May you not be blind to how shitty this life can be, and let that show you just how beautiful the good moments are. And may you emerge from each battle forged stronger and wiser, one step closer to the person you were meant to be.

May your denouement be long and tranquil. May you be confident and comfortable as your adventures continue. May you have the freedom to control your tale, to get what you've always wanted from it.

And when your story ends, may there be those who know it well. May it fill the hearts and mouths of those you held dear, to be told again and again long after you're gone.

On a couple of things I've learned over the years.

A recent birthday has the gears turning. And while I still don't have the time to sit down and write a proper blog, there are a couple of things that keep showing up in recent history. Some things I've known for years, some things I'm just finding out, some things I just needed a refresher in.

1. You're never really alone. Somewhere out there, someone's gone through the same shit and someone knows exactly how you feel. The human experience is not, for the most part, original. Take comfort in that.

2. Good people are usually found in clumps.

3. A hangover is best worn on the face. It lowers expectations.

4. Almost everything you need to know about someone can be found on the internet. The operating adjective in that sentence, of course, being 'almost'.

5. The most impressive people you meet don't give a shit that they're impressive. They're too busy blowing your fucking mind.

6. It doesn't matter if you grind your fair-trade coffee in a burr grinder so your mineral water can drip through a sustainable bamboo filter, none of that shit will help you if you forget to plug in the goddamn machine.

7. The only thing that tastes better than free beer is stolen beer.

8. Unless they asked you, they probably don't care what you think.

9. People think letting someone in is like opening a door; that it's a conscious, one-time decision. But I think we're more fluid than that; if someone is there, in your life, it's only a matter of time before they bleed into you and you bleed into them.

10. It doesn't matter how many books on food science, poetry, and philosophy you have lying around; one dong on your whiteboard and you're on the same page as everyone else.

Cheers, guys. See you tomorrow.

On multitudes.

Last night I was drinking and playing Rock Band and swapping bawdy tales with my dearling coworkers.

Tonight I was drinking and talking about the possibility of getting a new school in our neighborhood and the implications it would have on local families and property values.

That I am still both of these people and much, much more fills me with a peace and satisfaction that I cannot describe.

On a little slice of my day.

Nothing motivates a good housecleaning like imminent company. So my state of affairs is a little more tired, a little more ready to hit the couch and the remote with a vengeance.

The cats are happy, the floor doesn't leave stuff stuck to my feet. Fresh litter is in the box, and my socks are in the dryer.

And my fridge smells like truffle oil.

Yep. I'm ready for tomorrow.

On a quick life update.

I'm not gonna lie to you, I ain't doing so hot.

Working closers means I'm too washed out to cook for myself on the regular, which means I haven't gotten anything green in me for about a week. And thin on staff means I'm doing six or seven day runs at a go, which my old bones haven't been too happy about.

I can feel myself slipping. I'm forgetting things on the way out, my cheerful mien gets shaky when things don't fall into place like I want them to. I remember the hipster couple talking down to be because I work behind a counter rather than the scores of happy, smiling faces thanking me for my work.

And it's easy, so easy to slip. All it takes is a shift in your tone, a change in your facial expression, and you can make someone uncomfortable, unwelcome. You can make them feel bad for asking you for the simplest of specifications.

It annoys me that we're looked down upon, treated like the chaff of the world because we pour coffee and plate bagels. It's easy to forget that we can color a person's day with a facial expression, give them a jumpstart with a well-timed joke or ruin their mood with a slam of the register.

I'm letting the topic get away from me. It's something I've been mulling over for some time now, and something I'll get into writing sooner than later.

Until then. Head down. Power through.

On adulthood.

I know, I know. I'm long past the ideal that any one event or decision makes you an adult. Being an adult isn't something you earn. It's something you do. It doesn't happen when you buy a water/fireproof safe for your important documents. It isn't marked by your wedding or your first kid.

I've spoken before about my time as a business owner. And I have no illusions, no romantic glances back. It sucked. A lot. That level of responsibility caused a considerable amount of psychological, physiological, and financial damage to me in a very short amount of time.

But the one thing that stuck with me was the knowledge that the buck stopped with me. If I didn't get something done, there was no one to blame, no one to piss up the ladder on. It fell to me to fulfill my responsibilities with no one above me to push me or guide me. If I didn't know how to do something, I had to find out myself.

And that's what being an adult is, I think. It's about responsibility. It's about knowing that if you want something done, you have to make sure it gets done yourself. It's about rolling up your sleeves and getting in there, succeeding or failing on your own abilities. And if you fail, it isn't about finding someone or something to blame. And on the off chance you do succeed, it isn't about waving it around so everyone can pat you on the back for it. Win or lose, you shut the fuck up, shake yourself off, and get started on the next thing you have to get done.

I can't even begin to claim that I'm an adult by this definition. The list of things I should be doing is longer than the line at Ben and Jerry's on Free Ice Cream Day. But at least I know what it feels like, what I should be striving for if I want to have any degree of self-respect.

On what it's like inside my head.

Peas.
That's a lot of peas. I need to stay on top of harvesting them.
What am I going to do with all these peas?
soup
Too hot for soup. Chilled soup? (creme fraiche, mint. No, not mint. Maybe mint? Ask Meg. Pineapple sage, dill.)
Not soup. Puree. White beans, maybe. Herbs, maybe. With what? Roasted chicken.
Too easy. Lamb. Rack? Ground. Burger. Cucumbers, yogurt. Mint. Ask Meg. That'll go well.
Things are going too well with Daenerys. Something bad's going to happen. I can feel it.
thrones yeah game of thrones yeah game of throoooones
Need to post for Zoey. Maybe tonight. (Not feeling it. Maybe tomorrow.)
Need more fantasy in my life. Dragon Age 2 tonight? Borderlands. Dragon Age, Borderlands. I wonder what Ku's up to tonight.
What am I going to do with all these peas?
Puree. Right. I should shell them, freeze them. Stockpile until I have enough. A peasplosion. Peagasm.
Do I need to do laundry? No. Did that last week. Still have socks.
God, I'm tired.
Laur's tired. Is Lauren still online?
Yes.
Cool.
Blog. Shit, I have to blog today.
What? Don't feel like writing about service industry.
What do I have on the list?
No. No. No. Nope. Nuh uh.
Cat food. Do I have enough for the weekend? I'd better.
Four cats this weekend. I should set up the other litterbox.
Blog.
what
cmoncmoncmon
Peas.
I'll start with that.

On taking the long way.

I got sad this morning listening to Question. Not one of those stabbing, painful sadnesses, just a quiet, immersive melancholy, the kind that stills you, pulls your breath in deep and unfocuses your eyes.

And I wondered why, why this song could reach so deep and tug at strings long buried. (After all, those of you that know me should know by now that I'm not the best at accessing and understanding what goes on in my own head.) So I did what I usually do; I brought it up to the Animal. And she felt the same, felt like the song spoke of a beauty in our lives that's come and gone.

"Someday somebody's gonna ask you
A question that you should say 'yes' to
Once in your life."

I had that moment, after a steak dinner and a walk on the beach, on one knee in our shitty third-floor walkup in Ocean City, a quizzical Alistair in my hands as I asked a woman to marry me. A month later we were married in a gazebo in the park, the ink of Pavel's signature drying on the certificate, her mother holding up her cell phone with her father on the line so he could be there.

A year later was our wedding. My nearest and dearest on the beach between First and St. James, Pericles officiating in his black robe, Pavel with the rings. It was a day of laughter and joy, of a happiness I'd store in my mind palace for the rest of my days. There was a finality to it, a peace in knowing that a part of my life was complete. One less thing to worry about.

But things don't always turn out the way you'd hope. Life doesn't always happen the way the songs and movies tell you it should. Situations change. And just like that, that storybook moment is gone, never to be claimed again.

And one day, with any luck, I'll ask a woman the same question I'd asked before. And my friends and family will swing in from the four corners again, smiles on their faces and chuckles in their breath, saying I throw a good wedding. And it won't be the same. Whatever eldritch shine there is won't beat in my blood like it did. Because it didn't happen just once in my life.

I don't regret anything. I'd do it all the same again if I had to. And I'd be right back here, smiling as I listened to a silly old song, maybe a little down that things didn't work out the way I wanted it to, and happy for those who still have that chance.

On rain.

There's something about it. Something that makes me stop and stare out the window and smile, knowing that I'm not going to leave the house unless there's a really good reason for it.

Something that puts me at ease as I curl up on my couch, watching Alistair and Zevran wrestle in the dim light of my living room. Something in the percussive patter that eases that crick in my neck and the dull ache in my knee.

It's probably my laziness blooming in the fading guilt, reveling in the loss of choice to go outside. But whatever. I'll enjoy it while it lasts. I've got two days before I have to show my face at work again and the streets of Kirkwall and the plains of Pandora to keep me company until then.

On these short posts.

I know, it might seem like I'm slacking. But the truth is...

Well, I'm slacking.

See, I've made the mistake of starting to hang out with people again. Reintegrating myself back into society. And who knows? Maybe I'll start talking about things of meaning. Sharing experiences. Making real friends.

Crazy talk, I know.

But anyway. I'll have more meaningful things to say a little later in the week, when I actually have days off to collect myself. Promise.

On an aspiration.

One day, I hope to have more penises drawn on my whiteboards than things on my To Do list. It's looking grim at the moment, despite a friend's best efforts. But I have hope.

And isn't hope what life is all about?

On anger.

An old coworker of mine once said of me that I didn't have a fuse so much as I had a detonator. I laughed it off, took the appropriate amount of offense, and carried on with my day.

But he was correct. One second I'm smiling, cheerful, happily going about my business; the next I'm snarling, shoving things off the bar to clatter to the floor because they're in my way. I've struggled with anger issues my entire life; I could trace it back to all kinds of excuses - being bullied, not having a proper outlet, being taught from a young age that expressing extreme emotions was a sign of weakness. But the end result is the same.

I've spent years learning to suppress it, countless hours exercising restraint and relaxation, broadening my understanding of people to be forgiving to a fault. But now and then, one stupid little thing stacks upon another with no respite, and I lose it. Admittedly, nowadays, me losing it is far from dynamic; I'll usually find some way to inflict pain upon myself to override the feeling (usually by punching something I shouldn't; brick walls are my favorite) and shake it off. Gone are the days when I would want to fight, to yell.

But it stains the rest of my day. My face becomes stern, my voice sharp, my comments curt. My displeasure emanates from me like a cloud; I can darken a room with a look.

I suppose it's just the way I am now. I've improved greatly from my younger years; standard advice has been given to me thousands of times, evaluated, attempted, et cetera. And I've been mellowing with age; each passing year brings a little more tranquility, a little more patience.

We all have our demons to wrestle with. I suppose mine could be far worse.

On a very important event today.

Meg put radishes in her salad.

That is all.

On a lack of passion.

There was a time in my life when I felt like fire. I needed to get out and consume, to devour everything in my path and leave ashes in my wake. I wanted to have all of the fun, meet all of the people, do all of the things. And I did have fun (from what I remember). I met some incredible people. I've forgotten more stories than some will ever acquire. I also inflicted a fair amount of collateral damage, both physical and emotional, to the people and places in my life.

But it's quiet now. I can't really put a finger on what broke me. Maybe it was my dad, maybe it was trying to run a business long before I was ready. Maybe it was the failed marriage, or the substance problem I've cultivated in recent years. Maybe it's just age. But whatever it is, I don't have that spark I remember having. I've lost the desire to put myself out there because I know how exhausting it is. Even new things I learn are just systems I already know in different contexts and combinations.

Now, I don't want you guys to think this is some kind of cry for help. I'm actually quite content, if a little bored. My life is easy and pleasant. The few times I do get out of the house, I relish greatly. Things that used to outrage me, that would blind me with fury, now just induce a calm sadness or mild irritation.

But is this the way it's supposed to be? Am I just this now? Will there be no more bursts of furious, crazy passion? This is what makes me uneasy; the question of whether or not this quiet life is what is to span the rest of my days. And if it is not, what must I do to recapture it? Will I remember what it's like?

On last night's episode of Game of Thrones. (very minor spoilers)

Can we talk about how awesome Grey Worm's spearfighting is?

No? Still stuck on that one thing, are we?

Fair enough.

On a little nugget of wisdom.

Ants may love sugar, but they love protein more.

On aging relationships.

So the Animal and I went to go see Alkaline Trio recently, a band I've been listening to since 1999 or so. The venue was large and shiny, the crowd young and... well, shiny. I could tell immediately I was one of the oldest members of the audience.

I could feel a familiar excitement build in me as Matt Skiba took the stage; it had been a long time since I'd been to a concert, much less seen Alkaline Trio live. It was like seeing an old friend I hadn't seen in years.

More so than I anticipated, in fact. In the entire set, I recognized three of the songs. And it wasn't that they were playing all songs off their new album - with each intro, the crowd came alive, screaming every word along with them as they played. These were old standards, songs that have been out for years. Songs I'd never heard before because I didn't keep up.

I felt old. I felt betrayed, angry that they'd moved ahead without me. Where was the loyalty? Where was the respect for the old school fans?

Luckily, it didn't take me long to realize what a selfish and douchey standpoint that was. Relationships work both ways. If I wanted to feel included, I should have kept up with them. It wasn't their responsibility to play the songs I wanted to hear. Maybe I was there to support them towards the beginning, but this concert was now, for the kids in the pit, for the ones who knew the words.

And I sat back, happy that a band I loved kept moving forward, making music, and finding people who love their songs today like I did back in my shitty apartment in New Brunswick. Like watching an old friend laugh and chat with the people in their life now from across the room, glad to just be.

(And then they played Radio for the encore, Lauren and I screamed the lyrics to each other at the top of our lungs, and all was right with the world.)