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.