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.)