http://wecannotfallasleep.tumblr.com/

The Consistency of Emotional Tenses

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 09:00:46 -0800

It happens the same way every time.

I meet a new woman. The one-in-a-million type. I project all my hopes and dreams onto her. I see my future with her. I genuinely feel that I am able to commit myself to her love. That she is the last woman I am going to be with. I let myself love her. I tell my friends that “This time is different” and “I’ve never felt this way”. We spend moments together talking about light and love and potential and other beautiful moments we’ve experienced. “I love your sneeze.” “Your smile is adorable.” We text each other emoticon laden messages with hearts popping out of eyes and tongues sticking out of mouths. We stare into each other’s eyes like little kids seeing Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. “What are you thinking?” With a smile…“Nothing. What are you thinking?” We slip into each other’s skin like perfect suits of emotional bliss and strip down to our imperfect selves in discussions of insecurity and intimacy. She asks, “Is this too good to be true?” I say, “Not a chance. I love you.” I tell her how much I want her and want to know her. I disarm her inhibitions with my words and fortify her trust with my actions. We enjoy this blissful feeling…for a while.

Then something clicks – or maybe comes loose – inside of me. And I forget that blissful feeling. It disappears into the cavities of fear within my brain. Then I see the struggle of relational growth. I finally see her faults, her imperfections. I don’t see her as I had envisioned. Her baggage is too much to handle. Her friends aren’t true to her; my friends are better. She doesn’t love me, she looks up to me. I see her as a child looking up to Daddy. Am I supposed to fix her? Am I responsible for cleaning up her emotional messes? Do I even know her? My stomach hurts. My mood shifts. I lose perspective on the truth. I hesitate. I hold back. I stop living and start thinking. Fun dissipates like helium from a balloon. I issue a death sentence with the distance that grows in my heart. I quit. She cries. I take responsibility. She disappears. I chalk it up to “She’s not the one”, or “We’re just not compatible”, or “She has more growing up to do”. I hate myself at the core, yet I feel an exaggerated sense of relief at the same time.

Then I’m back within the solitary salvation of singledom. And at first, I enjoy it. I go on a million first dates. Sometimes we kiss. Sometimes we learn about each other’s curves and varying skin tones. Mostly I talk about myself. My successes in life, in music, in growth, in emotional liberation. The flare of an ego humbled by life is certainly a sight to see. I share my story of a child of divorced parents, of past relationships and the lessons they’ve imparted upon me, of my two strokes which shook my life to the point of writing my final good-byes to family and close friends. I open up my heart and reveal the truth within myself. And she inevitably says what I’ve heard 999,999 times before, “I’ve never met anyone like you.” She is inspired by me. By the way I approach life with vigor and openness. By the way I love my friends and family. By the way I pursue creative expression on a regular basis. And 999,999 times, the inspiration lasts for a few dates, perhaps a handful.

Then it fades. And my nights and mornings are coupled with loneliness until my next first date. Then I get to sing the song and dance the dance and kiss the girl. But ultimately, I wake up alone. Or perhaps she’s the one-in-a-million type. And I project all my hopes and dreams onto her. I see my future with her. I disarm her inhibitions with my words and fortify her trust with my actions. We enjoy this blissful feeling…

This cycle cannot continue. I must realize that I am here in this moment. And this moment is all that matters. The future is non-existent. The past is gone. The long walk towards self-realization is constant and unending. And this is my time to act upon the truth that revitalizes my heart and extinguishes the fear that corrupts it. Enough with expectation. Enough with hesitation. Enough with the childish belief of independence in emotional isolation. This is my life. I must live it, take part in it, and enjoy the process, easy or tough, because this is the only moment I have.

How I could be only five months removed from laying in a hospital bed messily scribbling my last words to family and friends through blurry, brain damaged vision and free flowing tears, and think that any moment other than this one matters, I have no idea.

Let’s try again. I meet a new woman. The one-in-a-million type. Then something clicks – or comes loose – inside of me. But this time, I remember that feeling. And I remember that this is the only moment that matters. And I let myself love her. I let myself be loved by her.

I live in the only moment I have.

This one.

Thoughts on Therapy

Wed, 27 Feb 2013 09:00:33 -0800

(An exerpt from a conversation with a friend in France.)

The therapy thing is an interesting topic. I have many discussions about it with my American friends, but very few with my international friends. There is certainly a negative connotation to therapy. And in my experience, the folks who judge therapy as something for stupid, weak, uninformed people are often the ones who need it the most. (Clearly not talking about your past self here.)

Many people in this world go to church, or temple, or another religious or spiritual “event” once a week, sometimes more. Enlightened people meditate and/or pray (in my world, they are the same thing). They seek council from peers and other enlightened individuals. They consult their friends when times get tough. And they continue to do this all their lives. The people that do these things are typically not deemed stupid, weak, or uninformed. There’s not one day where they wake up and say, “Whelp! That conversation with Timmy did wonders for me! I never have to talk to him again!” That’s not the way it works. Reasons to seek religion, spirituality, friendship, council are not things one can “fix” like putting a wheel back on a bicycle. The issues don’t just disappear all of a sudden. They sometimes last a lifetime. But more often, they just need some finessing or nudging and finally they get kicked out of one’s life.

So when you say that going to therapy for six years seems long, I say my issues aren’t like changing a tire on a bike. I am in a long process of reshaping my mind, body, and soul from negative thoughts and behavioral patterns that have been thrust upon me by society, my parents, my friends, myself, all that stuff, into a positively pure, insightful, and helpful human being that can deal with the rigors of life without launching into fantasy worlds when things get tough, and in some cases when they get really good.

You nailed it: I am not my mind. But I have one. I am not my body. But I have one. I am not even my soul. But I have one. While I am consciously aware of these things that I have, I do my best to regulate - and hopefully prevent - the negativity that goes into them. I want to seek help from all who will encourage my positive growth. I don’t go to therapy for answers from my therapist. I go to discover answers within myself. And really, if there’s anyone to point the finger at for my lack of improvement in this area over the past six years (which I believe does not exist), it’s me. This guy right here. It’s not my therapist’s job to “fix” me, as I said. In reality, he - along with my friends, coworkers, spiritual texts, my parents, my brother, art, music, and even long distance pen-pals (that’s you!) - are why I am as well-balanced and enlightened as I am today. Without therapy, I’d probably still be dating immature, mean-spirited, angry, and classless women who have no desire to become great or even do good.

So, yeah, that’s my thought on therapy.

Giving Up is Hard to Do

Wed, 13 Feb 2013 16:41:00 -0800

I give up.

I don’t want to help you anymore.

I don’t want to enable your disgusting habit of self-inflicted negativity and the ease of which you slide into it every time the circumstances lack perfection. You always seem to be waiting for the perfect circumstances: the perfect time, the perfect person, the perfect tone. The imperfections in the circumstances are what reveal perfection in us. The ability to adapt is this perfection. It’s inside of each of us and is revealed only through self-inquisition, self-reflection, and true revelation. Give me any situation and I will succeed. I don’t necessarily know what I’m going to do when I get there, but I know that when I get there, I’ll know what to do.

But you don’t believe this. You don’t believe in yourself. You lack a kind eye when reviewing your inner workings. You lack the self-love that is needed to overcome the irrational fear that envelops your soul. And I have tried so hard to show you that fear is a waste. I’ve tried to lead by example, to speak with you, to ask you questions, encourage you to reveal the truth within your insecurities. And I can’t do it any more. I can’t take your resistance. I can’t take your desire to wallow in your own misery. And to bring me with you. To twist the goodness of the world into a knotted, dreary, mess of cables curling on the frozen tundra. I can’t do it anymore.

Perhaps this is simply my weakness. Perhaps I don’t have the mettle to support the weight of this darkness. Perhaps it is just always my responsibility to make things right; to shine the light. I can’t do it anymore.

I give up.

The limitations you see are invisible to me, but the opposition to growth inside of your heart is all too clear. I was once afraid. I was once lost. I was once the picture of angst and insecurity. And I hated myself for it. And I pushed so much love away. I was too frightened and too insecure to open my heart to love and honesty; to undeniable truth. I forced love away because I didn’t know how to process it or how to receive it. I poisoned myself with fear. Fear to love, to be loved, to be seen for who I was. Because I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t recognize that my core is pure love. I couldn’t recognize it because surrounding that core was a thick, swollen, scaly layer of fear. A fear so strong, so deep, that the infinite light of love at my core only escaped through tiny cracks lovingly pierced by kind souls who had the time and patience to reveal a better way through life. They revealed that only love exists in this world. And the thick, swollen, scaly layer of fear is a false belief, an irrational and imaginary cloak that does nothing to protect us, but actually exposes us to the debilitating and deflating self-imposed ideas that we are ugly and unworthy and limited and useless and untalented and empty and above all, unlovable. And this is false. This is all a fallacy. It’s a fictional universe that exists only in our minds. It has no basis in the reality in which we live. It is putrid.

So I decided I would see the world for what it is. And see myself for who I am. Uncover the core of love that had been hidden beneath the cracked rubble of fear for so long. Let the rails of light break through the settling dust and illuminate the faces of those around me. Share the reality of our limitless potential and encourage digging deep to unveil the unending fountains of love that exist within every one of us. Explore goodness and truth with a fervor that only children seem to grasp. Eliminate the fearful poison that forms in me as frightened thoughts and destructive inactions. Let go of my rigid and immovable beliefs rooted in fear and flow fluidly through the river of gracious impermanence and loving guidance.

This is the only way. Doing my best, with an open heart, a gracious mind, and a forgiving attitude is the only way. Doing my best is the only option. It’s the only way I can live truly, happily, and with gratitude. And I want you to come with me.

But I won’t wait for you any longer.

I can’t.

I give up.

End of Year Wrap-Up

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 19:56:53 -0800

End of Year, Section 1: My 2012 Musical Wrap-Up

1. On October 29, 2011, I began listening to my iTunes library in alphabetical order by song title. On September 24, 2012 (that’s 332 days later), I finished. In the process, I rated each song and created a four-star and a five-star playlist of the corresponding ranked songs. I also deleted every album that contained more one- and two-star songs than three-, four-, or five-star songs. I rediscovered delightful pieces that slipped through the cracks months and years ago, discovered pieces I had procured but never listened to, and found other pieces that once affected me quite profoundly have since left me uninspired. Limiting myself to this task was a lesson in patience as well as observation. In the end, I pared down my iTunes to a hefty group of wonderful pieces of music that keep me company in my time at home and while on the move. I highly recommend setting something like this up for yourself to see what unfolds. (You’ll never believe how many songs begin with a form of the word you.)

2. My top spun albums (not necessarily released in 2012) in alphabetical order by band/artist name.

American Analog Set - Set Free (2005)
Blanck Mass - S/T (2011)
Boards of Canada - Music Has the Right to Children (1998)
Caspian - Waking Season (2012)
Harold Budd & Robin Guthrie - Mysterious Skin Soundtrack (2004)
Lento - Icon (2011)
Mogwai - Hardcore Will Never Die But You Will (2011)
Puscifer - “C” Is for (Please Insert Sophomoric Genitalia Reference Here) (2009)
A Winged Victory for the Sullen - S/T (2011)

3. My top five spun songs (not necessarily released in 2012).

1. White Noise - Mogwai
2. Somebody That I Used to Know - Gotye
3. Spirited from the City - Signal Hill
4. John Wayne Gacy, Jr. - Sufjan Stevens
5. Born on the Cusp - American Analog Set

End of Year, Section 2: My 2012 Photography Wrap-Up

On January 1, 2012, I posted to my photography blog this image of an old dusty key I captured in the basement of my paternal grandparents’ house. On December 31, 2012 (365 days later), on that same blog, I posted this image of a motorcycle in front of a church cross at night. Between those two posts are 363 other original images I captured.

This process represents my progress as a photographer, encourages my progress as an artist, and exhibits my progress as a human seeing.

End of Year, Section 3: My Life in List Format

1. Woke up on January 1, 2012. (Gotta start this list off right!)

2. Learned some German. (Utilized to buy beer in Deutschland, of course.)

3. Had a story published on Musicjobs.com.

4. Toured Belgium, Germany, and Poland with my band, Beware of Safety.

5. Traveled from Poland to Rome by myself.

6. Traveled to Berlin with two of my closest friends.

7. Traveled to Rhode Island for the wedding of a high school buddy.

8. Posted 365 original photographs to my photo blog.

9. Had left knee arthroscopy.

10. My niece was born.

11. Served as best man in one of my closest friend’s weddings.
11.1. Planned and executed bachelor party.
11.2. Delivered (rousing) speech.

12. Survived two strokes. (Read: I didn’t die. NBD.)
12.1. Was visited every day in the hospital by my cousin, my best friend and his fiancé.
12.2. Received an outpouring of loving support from family, friends, acquaintances, colleagues, sympathizers, compadres, associates, contemporaries, well-wishers, and strangers due to my experience.

13. Served as best man in my best friend’s wedding.
13.1. Planned and executed bachelor party.
13.2. Delivered (epic) speech.

14. Traveled to wine country for an old friend’s wedding.

15. Made a lot of progress on a writing project with a close friend.

16. Began writing new material with Beware of Safety.

17. Appeared on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno because of my moustache. (15 minutes of fame here and gone.)

18. Traveled to Massachusetts to visit my lovely family.
18.1. Received the best Christmas gift of all time by being inducted as Godfather to my niece. (“Inducted” makes it sound so epic, right?!)

19. Met many new wonderful and inspiring people from all over the globe.

For each of us, there is wayyy too much amazing stuff to keep track of and try to reiterate throughout an entire calendar year - and the items listed above are simply a few of mine. But the one memory that sums up this year’s profundity is this: When I finished my best man speech at my best friend’s wedding, the couple each hugged me, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I’m so glad you’re here.” Then my friend Murphy hugged me, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I’m so glad you’re here.” Then Parker did it. Then Chu. Then Allyson. Then Morgan. And for the rest of the evening, people kept saying the same thing as I walked passed or bumped into them: “I’m so glad you’re here.” And it continues to this day. Each time I hear it, I get a little misty and my heart opens up a little more. It is the fuel that keeps me positive and motivated despite the seemingly continual frustration in my recovery process.

And I hope “I’m so glad you’re here” never stops.

Because it never, EVER gets old.

Happy New Year.

Happy to Add "Stroke Survivor" to My Resumé

Tue, 13 Nov 2012 21:52:00 -0800

(This is an informational entry.)

On Tuesday, September 11, 2012, at 1:46pm, I suffered a stroke. I was rushed to the hospital and admitted a few hours later. But the doctors struggled to find the cause. Then on Wednesday, September 12, at around 3:00pm, I suffered another stroke. The doctors ran another barrage of MRIs, CT Scans, and ultrasounds and ultimately found a small tear in the vertebral artery wall on the right side of my brain. As the body does, it went into healing mode and a clot formed on the tear. That clot ultimately blocked the artery and caused the two strokes. Once they found this, the doctors quickly put me on proper medication to prevent further damage from taking place.

After exactly two months, I am doing quite well and will continue leading a normal life with very minimal short term medical monitoring. I have full range of motion in all parts of my body - my toes, fingers, mouth, all work fine and are balanced- my smile is still purdy and the only lasting effect is a small blind spot in my lower left field of vision. Thankfully it doesn’t affect my driving, so I’m free to sit in traffic on the LA freeways to and from work. Awesome.

The technical stuff: Both strokes I suffere were caused by a condition called Vertebral Artery Dissection. The second stroke I suffered was an asymptomatic stroke on my cerebellum. “Asymptomatic” is the best word in a description of a stroke. It means, as mentioned above, everything in my body is working fine. I show no typical signs of cerebellar stroke like paralysis or limited cognition. The first stroke was symptomatic in the form of my blind spot. This is typical with strokes on the occipital lobe and is typically permanent. The best news is the doctors - a neurologist and my primary care physician - found the VAD as quickly as they did (the afternoon of the 12^th) after running many tests Tuesday night and Wednesday morning and started an aggressive treatment right away. As you all know, timing is everything with medical issues and I am extremely fortunate to have a crew of amazing doctors, nurses, technicians, transporters, housekeepers, billing reps, and other hospital staff at St. John’s who worked hard to get me the heck outta there in good shape.

Today, my brain is healing very well and my doctors are quite pleased with my progress. They hold the strong belief that I will fully recover except for the potential that the blind spot is permanent. When I asked my ophthalmologist if the blurry spot was permanent, she said, “Typically, yes.” My response was, “I’m not typical.” To which she replied, “That’s what I like to hear.”

My three-month follow up MRI is in one month and if the results show that the artery is fully healed, I will be taken off my blood thinners. That means I can begin exercising again, eating vitamin K (kale, spinach, broccoli, etc), and I won’t have to worry about bleeding to death from a rogue paper cut or spontaneous nose bleed.

(And no, the irony of having a health issue and not being able to eat “the good stuff” [i.e. - the foods mentioned above], yet being able to drink alcohol [in moderation, of course] is not lost on me. I miss spinach more than my 12-year-old self could ever imagine.)

I cannot overstate the gratitude I have for my co-worker Frank Ventura who found me in Palisades Park in Santa Monica minutes after my first stroke and had the presence of mind to lie me down and call my boss, Jeremy Stone, and co-worker, Angie Stone (who happens to moonlight as an X-ray technician at St. John’s), to pick me up and drive me to the ER. Thank you also to the stranger with the Phillies hat who let me hang on to his arm when the stroke first came on and walked me towards safety even though he must’ve thought I was on drugs when I clumsily stood up and asked for help stating that I couldn’t see. It is Santa Monica, after all. Without that quartet of heroes, who knows where I’d be.

I’d like to extend infinite gratitude to my friends and family who visited me in the hospital and home; drove me to doctor’s appointments before I was safely behind the wheel; sent me care packages, cards, books, links to inspiring videos; and for showing their care in emails, phone calls, texts, Facebook messages, and tweets. The biggest thanks go to my best friends, Adam and Catherine Kay, and my cousin, Tita Ferick, for physically being by my side in the hospital; my brother, Brian, for flying from Boston to LA to make sure I was in one piece; and to Kelly Pendergast for being my primary chauffeur to my semi-weekly doctor’s appointments. (One of those times, we almost got run over by Robert Downey, Jr. True story.) Lastly, you know parents always make the cuts in the Thanks Department: My mom and dad have been immensely supportive and caring even from 3000 miles away.

Even I, a non-stop talker, cannot find the proper words to express my thanks to all the amazing people who have supported me on my journey due to this event.

After two months of sharing my story with friends and strangers, I recognize what my purpose is in this world and am working diligently on realizing it. This will reveal itself in the coming months.

I feel wonderful today and my recovery will continue to progress well. I am full of joy, love, appreciation, and gratitude for this event and never once asked, “Why me?” Instead, I ask myself, “What more can I give?”

My deepest thanks for your continuous support and loving energy. It is why I am alive today.

The Color of Dream

Tue, 04 Sep 2012 11:56:12 -0700

Remnants of the blood red sun gave birth to an orange sky that lay quietly beyond the windshield. I twisted in my seat and fed the belt buckle into the clasp by my left hip. I looked directly at the driver’s face trying to determine who was in control, but the sun’s gaze skewed my view and kept her definable features hidden. Sensing another presence in the car, I inquisitively turned my head to the back seat. My eyes fed the image directly into my heart and it burst open with a joy unprecedented. In a small car seat she sat quietly, innocently looking into my eyes. My body convulsed as if thrown into an icy pool. My eyes cracked like an overstuffed dam. My heart was overflowing. I felt no fear. I felt no loneliness. The sun became a backdrop to this tiny ray of light. She was my daughter. My creation. My intention. I was in love with her. Nothing else mattered.

I immediately woke in the same state of emotion: tears soaking my pillow, chest heaving, heart speeding. The dream was real. It couldn’t have been a dream. My body felt its weight. My heart had never been so full. I clumsily slid open the drawer of my nightstand, uncapped the obedient pen, and wrote as many already fading details as my sluggish brain could recall. As I caught my breath, I felt my cheeks swell. My teeth revealed the impact of seeing my unborn and unconceived daughter only a few inches from the ends of my eyelashes. I had never been in love until that moment. And it was years until I fell again.

10:08pm : 08/28/12 : #4474

Tue, 28 Aug 2012 22:19:32 -0700

10:08pm : 08/28/12 : #4474

No Needles for Me, Please

Mon, 25 Jun 2012 09:29:00 -0700

I hate needles. They’re gross. I avoid them if at all possible. I don’t even donate blood. (I know, I know, I’m a bad citizen. Shoot me. But don’t poke me.)

But when it came to arthroscopic knee surgery, I couldn’t avoid the pointy little buggers. So after I slipped into my stylish johnny and hopped under the covers of my equally stylish and comfortable gurney at the Surgery Center of the Pacific, my nurse Ashley began “hooking up” the IV. Which, for those of you who don’t know, is a frickin needle.

I quietly indicated that my left arm usually has the best veins while I shrunk down the gurney and looked around for a bottle of whiskey to supplement the need for the IV. No luck. Ashley looked at me and much to my dismay said, “Usually they want it in the hand.”

The hand. Basically the grossest part of the body in which to stick a needle. It’s thin, it’s bony, it’s got no meat whatsoever. It’s all muscle and tendon. Blech. I’m getting queasy thinking about it. At this juncture, I allowed myself to be less the “bravery guy” and more the “honesty guy”, so I admitted that I was a major wimp when it came to needles and that I’ve passed out during previous needle poking adventures. But Ashley was certain: “We’ll be fine.”

We. Yeah, we.

So she plunged into my left hand. This was the exchange that followed:

Me: “Ooooof. Ow, ow, ow. This is so gross. Oh man. Ughhhh.”

Ashley: “You’re doing great, Steve. We’re almost there.”

Me: “Oh wait. Yup. I’m getting lightheaded. Yup, lightheadedess.”

Ashley: “It’s okay, we’re almost there. Good job, Steve.”

Me: “Nope. Nope. Yeah, I’m going to pass out. Yup, I’m passing out.”

And then I passed out. Just like that. I literally narrated the entire thing for Ashley.

In the dreamy haze that follows fainting, I had hoped it was all over. That she had successfully entered the back of my hand and soon I’d be drifting off to the wonderful level of anesthesia induced sleep.

Well, she wasn’t successful. Which meant she didn’t get a “good” vein in my hand. Which meant she had to go back in for another try.

Me: “OOOOOOF.”

“No more hand, right?” I mustered from beneath my un-molested hand which was covering my mouth while clutching my hair-net hospital cap.

“I’m soooo sorry, Steve! We’ll go for your arm this time. We’ll be fine this time.”

We again.

Ashley then stuck the bend of my left arm while another nurse held my right hand and gently said things like, “You’re doing great, honey.” “Squeeze as hard as you want.” “We’re almost done.” If you’re counting at home, that’s two nurses tending to one patient. I’m so selfish.

Did I mention that I’m 33 years old and the nurse holding my hand was probably ten years my junior? The fact that I actually just wrote the phrase “ten years my junior” means I’m too old for this fainting stuff to be happening. Oy vey.

Thankfully I didn’t faint again. And the rest of the procedure was a cinch. The anesthesiologist doped me up with a nice cocktail brew and before I knew it, I was at home in bed with an ice pack on my knee and crackers and water on my night stand.

But I still embarrassed my 33-year-old self by fainting in front of a handful of cute nurses. Weak.

At least I didn’t pee my johnny.

The Pencil Request

Sat, 10 Mar 2012 14:00:05 -0800

First day of algebra class and I forget a pencil. Awesome.

Gotta ask someone sitting near me. Too bad the only person in earshot is the starting point guard for the varsity basketball team. And I’m definitely NOT the starting small forward. Or even a bench player. I’m just some 14-year-old kid who doesn’t have a pencil.

Great. Okay, all right, no problem. Just ask. But I gotta be cool, though. Don’t wanna sound like an idiot.

So just ask. Just go, “Hey Sean, can I borrow a pencil?” Nah, nah, that’s not cool enough. Gotta make it sound just right. If I get in with him, I can totally hang out with his crew. And he’s got some serious clout with the ladies. This pencil request could be the most important moment of my freshman year and, if that’s the case, my entire high school career! This is serious business. Make or break. Winner takes all. Et cetera, et cetera. All right, let’s do this! I got this!

But wait… He’s probably gonna think I’m a dumbass for not bringing a pencil to the first day of class.

And he’d be right! Seriously, how the hell do I forget a pencil? I’m worthless! I can’t even remember to bring the most important piece of equipment to a high school algebra class: a friggin pencil!

Why would he even wanna be friends with a no-pencil-having loser like me? He’ll probably be like, “Dude. You don’t have your own pencil? Don’t you take studying seriously? You’re a dick.” Then my social life is screwed cuz he’ll tell all his friends and they’ll totally make fun of me, “Hey loser! HAHA! He’s got no pencils! Here’s a pencil, LOSER!”

In fact, what if someone else in the class overhears me ask him for one? They’ll all think I’m a loser! And Elsie Davidson is two seats away! She’ll think I’m such a dork!

Crap.

Okay.

What do I do then? I need a penc—

Holy shit. Did Mark Hammond just look at me? Did he see the empty space on my desk where the pencil should be? He knows. Oh crap, he knows. Now I’m totally gonna get laughed at. That’s all I need!

This sucks. School sucks. I can’t do anything right. I’m such a dick. No one loves me. No one’s ever gonna love me. I’ve got no pencils, how can I ever provide for a girl like Elsie? Awesome. Just awesome.

Welcome to the second half of freshman year! And the end of your social life as you had hoped it might be!

Ugggghhh, I still need a pencil! Mrs. Granger is writing on the chalkboard. Crap! All right. All right! Just do it! Just ask him. Just ask!

“Hey, uh, Sean, can I, umm, borrow a pencil?”

“Sure, man. Here ya go.”

“Hey, thanks, man! Thanks a lot!”

Huh.

What a swell guy!

I knew I’d be fine.

11:01pm : 03/07/12 : #4821

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 22:24:23 -0800

11:01pm : 03/07/12 : #4821

The Death of Rock was published on MusicJobs.com

Sat, 03 Mar 2012 12:42:00 -0800

http://us.music-jobs.com/blog/index.php/offbeat/death-of-rock-steve-molter/

The Effect of Disbelief on Reality (and Love)

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 19:43:00 -0800

I don’t believe in this stuff. This stuff simply does not happen in real life. I am not new to dating. But I swear to you now – I swear on my mother’s life – that I have never felt like this. And I simply don’t believe it.

MONDAY, JANUARY 2, 2012

There was nothing special about what led up to our first date. I had woken up sprawled across my bed, half covered in sheets; my mouth was dry due to the unseasonable Angelino warmth. I went about my business like any other day. I greeted my computer with a gentle press of a button. I phoned my father to catch up on our New Year’s Eve stories. I stopped by my best friend’s house for lunch like I’ve done so many other times. It was all very vanilla.
But at 3:30pm, Maya arrived at the wine bar. I had been waiting for a few minutes looking over the wine list and watching couples pass by hand-in-hand on Culver Blvd. Maya walked up from behind me, stopped beside my chair, and introduced herself. I stood to greet her with a hug, offered her the chair opposite mine, and sat to face her. Her eyes overflowed with kindness. Her mouth painted sounds that my ears drank in. Her brunette hair fell across her shoulders like snow on the tops of mountains. But she wasn’t exactly what I had pictured in my mind for my future wife and lifetime friend.
As we immersed ourselves in conversation, I stealthily looked her over for flaws in her physical form, but not for a reason to run like I had done on past dates. I scrutinized her because I didn’t believe I could be so attracted to someone who didn’t fit into my preconceived picture of what I thought I would find beautiful. And Maya smashed that picture when I saw her hands. I pay very close attention to the way a woman maintains her hands and feet. I see them as the feminine extension of a woman’s soul. And Maya’s fingertips were not perfectly manicured; they were those of a woman who had done work. One who made things. One who expressed herself through art. A little speck of paint here, a patch of old fingernail polish there, but still the fingers of a woman: gentle and delicate. And I loved each one of her fingers and their tiny imperfections. She wasn’t exactly what I had pictured. And that’s what made this moment so surprising.
What the hell is this feeling in my chest?
At first we spoke about the normal get-to-know-you stuff: where we grew up, how many siblings, etc., but as our comfort levels grew – and they grew quite quickly – we dived into the subtleties of etiquette, our individual ways of dealing with life’s lessons and opportunities, and our mutual passion for helping people and offering love consistently and honestly. Listening to her affectionately describe the non-profit she started five years ago and watching her eyes light up as I spoke about the music I expressed through my heart, I was enchanted. And shocked. I couldn’t believe that this connection was happening. This stuff simply doesn’t happen.
Throughout our conversation we cracked bad jokes, told family stories, shared our experiences with art – and to a lesser extent, wine – and as she shared herself unabashedly, exuberantly, and whole-heartedly, this feeling in my chest kept swelling.
What the hell is this feeling in my chest?
When the bill came, the next step had to be decided. But smiles slowly reflected in our eyes because the decision had been silently made before the bill even came: this night was not ending yet. We took a stroll through Downtown Culver City before the cool January air crept into our heat-dependent, Angelino skin, so we decided to head to my apartment across the street to listen to records.
I opened the door and showed her in. She immediately complimented the décor. She loved my use of space. Then she asked me what other new visitors ask me upon entering my place: “Will you play me some of your music?” Her childlike curiosity was bubbling through her eyes.
If it were already on, the record player would’ve scratched. I have not sat in a room with someone and listened to an entire piece of my own music in years. I honestly cannot recall the last time it happened. It’s awkward. It’s like standing naked in the center of the room without getting to explain that your deodorant ran out three days ago, or you haven’t replaced your broken pull-up bar yet, or that you succumbed to the holiday treats despite their effect on your waistline. My usual response in this situation is to explain every detail of every chord choice, melodic phrase, and rhythmic bounce as we listen. I get all awkward and jittery. I feel insecure. I feel out of place. I act like a doofus. It’s wicked strange when I listen to my own music with someone, so I just don’t do it.
“Will you play me some of your music?” she inquired.
“Of course!” I blurted out to my own surprise.
She was in. I opened up. I let her in. I actually wanted to feel the strangeness of listening to my own music with her. I wanted her to feel it too. I wanted to sit next to her on my couch and let her lose herself in the sea of musical expression that reveals my soul. And she did. She sat motionless. And just listened. And while we sat in our human silence, I was calm. I was safe. I was home.
What. Is. This.
As we kissed between the gentle waves of “As Night Wears On”, my heart was dizzy in its own rhythmic pulse. And Maya’s flushed cheeks were warm and honest. She was with me. She was part of me. And I saw myself in her eyes.

The plans she made for a late dinner with friends could not be broken. And despite our combined swoon-induced attempts to stay and kiss and talk and laugh, our reason-induced acknowledgement that we would see each other again won us over. And like that, our first date was over.

Who is this woman who just left my apartment? Did she really offer herself willingly to me, a stranger, without hesitation? Did she really nervously admit disbelief at our potent joyful connection? Did she really listen to me speak without once letting her ego insert her into my stories and verbal expressions? Who is this woman who paused when putting on her boots to leave my apartment and looked at me across the room and asked astonishingly, “What’s happening right now?” Is this really her scent infused in my shirt from when we embraced lovingly for our goodnight kiss?
What the hell is this feeling in my chest?
This feeling is in front of me now. Between Maya and me while we sit on the patio at Ugo’s drinking wine and laughing on the first Monday of the New Year. Between us as we walk through Culver City arm-in-arm reminiscing as if we’ve been here before. Between us while we sit closely on my couch listening to gentle music as if it was the millionth time we had performed this daily ritual. Between us when we finally embrace and kiss goodnight as if every other kiss each of us experienced had never existed.
“Is this really happening?” she says, cheeks flushed, smile broad as she stands beside her open car door.
“I have no idea what’s happening,” I reply, heart swooning and open, eyes gleaming.
“See you soon,” she declares with a loving softness in her eye.
“I cannot wait.”

TUESDAY, JANUARY 3, 2012

Still feeling so overwhelmingly vulnerable upon waking up on Tuesday morning, I chose to surrender to this feeling in my chest despite the indisputable fear that rose in my throat. And at that moment, I saw a future in which I gave and received a love that I had never experienced before. And the romantic desire I felt for all other women throughout the world went from being important to being absolutely non-existent. It was unbelievable.
What is this feeling?

Maya greeted me at the gate to her building on Tuesday afternoon. I kissed her as we waited for the elevator. After going up two floors, we took a left and crossed an open-air walkway. We stopped for a moment to appreciate a wonderful view of the setting sun through a group of gently waving palm trees. She showed me into her apartment. A beautiful loft a block from Venice Beach. She showed me a chalkboard she made from scrap wood from Home Depot. She showed me the handmade jewelry she was creating. Then she sat on the couch and I sat beside her.
“I have to tell you something.”
Maya’s eyes turned red, her face lost color, her brow furrowed.
“Jesus Christ,” I dejectedly muttered while shaking my head and looking towards the door.
“I broke up with my boyfriend in March, but we remained friends. For the most part. Mutual friends, you know how it goes. After I left you last night, I went to meet my friends for dinner and he ended up showing up later.”
My face was a contorted mix of anger, disappointment, frustration, and heartbreak. I made no sound. I made no gestures. I looked into her kind eyes while she struggled to find words to hurt me less. I sat silent as she spoke.
“He told me he wants to try it again. He felt we could work it out. And I feel it too.
“This is so awful. I feel like I’ve been dating you for months. I know you. I am so sorry. I wish we met sooner. This is awful timing.
“You’re such a wonderful person and kind and considerate, compassionate, self-aware. What happened between us was unbelievable. I never expected something so strong and so lovely to form in such a short amount of time.
“This decision is so difficult. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so sorry if I sound crazy. I don’t know how to do this the right way. I’m so sorry, Steve.
“How do you feel?”
I finally spoke, “I’m sure my face is telling enough.”
Her eyes welled. Her hands fell silent on her lap. Her voice quivered when she spoke. Her heart was open. Both our hearts were aching in this moment. I chose my words carefully.
“Maya, I am not angry that you have found something you feel is worth pursuing. When someone finds love, it’s a wonderful thing. And if it’s with him, then I’m not part of that equation. I’m not angry with you. I’m just disappointed that we never even had a chance.”
That feeling in my chest…
“I felt something with you that I have never felt in my life. Not even with the one woman I know I was in love with. And I didn’t even get a chance to hold it in my chest. We didn’t even get to wake up together. Or meet each other’s friends. Or clean the kitchen together. Or dress up to go see a show. Or try to build a life. It was all one moment. And it’s gone. I felt something so undeniably wonderful and it’s gone. That’s why I’m upset.”
“I am so sorry, Steve,” Maya replied gently. “What happened last night was unbelievable. You are such an amazing person…”
“…But that’s not enough. Not for you. Right now.”
“No. Not now.” Her eyes now fell to her hands on her lap. “I know my heart wouldn’t be fully in it if I were to pursue the possibility of us because I would think of the ‘what if?’ with my ex who I was in love with and had a history with. And that wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. And I would not ask you to change your mind.”
I rose slowly. I put on my jacket, slipped my feet into my shoes, and left Maya’s apartment.

And now I sit motionless on my couch, my hands resting in my lap. I sit in human silence. Alone. My eyes are beaten. My heart spurned. That feeling in my chest snuffed out and replaced with a dull ache. This stuff doesn’t happen in real life. You just don’t fall in love on the first date. Genuine connection over worldly viewpoints and life goals just doesn’t happen on one date. Love at first sight is not real. And yet I sit alone in my apartment ruminating on what just happened to me, on how real it was. On the fact that I actually fell in love with Maya over the course of four hours; on the fact that I am now utterly heartbroken; on the fact that I saw everything I wanted in a woman when I saw Maya.

But I don’t believe in this stuff.
And that’s why it never happened.

The Sneeze

Sat, 26 Nov 2011 13:45:00 -0800

She was blonde. She was tall. Legs like sunflower stems. I caught her eye briefly, but she just smiled politely and continued to walk past figuring I was another average customer. She had no idea what the day had planned for her in that obscenely crowded Apple Store on the Third Street Promenade, her place of employ.

But I had it all figured out already. The second I saw her I knew how it was going to go. I would start simply and say, “Hello.” She would be a bit shy at first (clearly intimidated by my handsome moustache and calm, yet direct demeanor) but after a few clever jokes and a few insightful observations, I’d be in. Then I would take her out for sushi on Friday, kiss her gently in my car in front of her apartment building next Tuesday, get down on one knee while vacationing in Hawaii next April, and marry her in front of our families and closest friends on a beautiful southern California day in June of 2013. Or failing all that, I would at least ask for her phone number.

I had been admiring The Future Mrs. Molter’s grace and humility while contently waiting to hear her angelic voice call my name: “Steve Molter next at the Genius Bar.” Man, I couldn’t wait! But as I did, I watched her wiggle between tight crowds of customers and smile patiently at others while she artistically and elegantly chewed her gum. In between periodic glances at the Genius Bar schedule on her iPad, she giggled daintily with co-workers. The kind of giggle that makes your body joyfully quiver and squirm; almost a physical imitation of her adorable vocal expression.

The Future Mrs. Molter’s co-worker Ben had checked me in for my appointment. I did my best to position myself in line so as to end up face to face with my future wife, but no luck. Ben got to me first. Nice guy and all, but clearly he didn’t catch my subtle eye dodging and head turning when he attentively tried to flag me down. “Sir, I can help you right here,” he said over the clicking of keyboards, the swooshing of sent mail, and the pitter patter of Toms shoes shuffling through the store.

After check-in, I stood near the glass divider by the Genius Bar. A veritable crows nest protecting me from the swells of customers, I was able to keep my gaze locked on the shores of my future wife and best friend.

I watched her assist an older couple of about 60. The three were just out of earshot, but The Future Mrs. Molter was clearly dazzling them with her vibrancy and luster. She laughed as they made small talk; they smiled widely as she assisted with their questions.

But then, in an instant, The Future Mrs. Molter was dealt a most interesting hand. As she spoke, a sudden wave of sneeze overcame her. The wave was a surprise, but her sneeze was one of those delicate sneezes that sounds like a kitten’s. And before she could respond to the surprise attack by pulling her inner elbow towards her face, a projectile flew out of her mouth and – thwack – hit the floor at an incredible rate of speed next to the 60 year-old woman’s shoe.

The Future Mrs. Molter’s gum now was exposed – naked and alone – in the middle of the floor in the Apple Store on the Third Street Promenade. Far from its comfortable home inside her mouth.

But The Future Mrs. Molter bore ahead. Without an embarrassing flinch or rosy-cheeked apology, she excused herself, bent down, picked up the gum, walked it to a trash bin nearby, came back to her customers, and finished with their questions.

Steadfast in the face of potential social embarrassment, ladies and gentlemen, The Future Mrs. Molter!

Ben finally called my name to see my Genius Bar Genius. (Ben. Sheesh. That guy can’t take a hint.) I quietly laughed to myself about watching the gum dive bomb the floor and in no time my computer’s issue was resolved. But as my appointment wrapped up at the Genius Bar and I prepared myself to woo The Future Mrs. Molter, I turned around and she was nowhere to be found. She vanished. And with her, our sushi dinner, our Tuesday night kiss, our Hawaiian vacation, and our Summer ’13 wedding.

The Birthday of the Ex

Thu, 10 Nov 2011 17:00:00 -0800

I’ve been agitated and tired this whole week. My sleep schedule’s been off, I’ve been acting selfishly, distracted, checked out, thoughtless, easily annoyed, all that external projection stuff that comes with an indefinable feeling in my gut. It’s like a ball of anger is creeping slowly from my mid-section to my furthest extremities and nothing I do physically or vocally releases that stress in a meaningful or satisfying way.

I’ve been making the standard excuses for these actions all week, like “It must be the time change” or “Maybe it’s stress.” But I couldn’t actually put my finger on that elusive wound that was giving me these pangs of anger, these bursts of frustration, and these swells of loneliness. Until today, that is. November 10^th: The Birthday of the Ex.

I logged into Facebook when I got home from work just like every other American between the ages of ~~18 and 35~~ 10 and 75 and started scrolling through my friends’ hilariously insightful status updates, seeming celebrity-like new friendings, and 80s-Party-Of-The-Century!!! event planning. Then I got to one status update that jammed that searching finger so hard into that elusive wound that I nearly simultaneously peed my pants, tossed my cookies, and balled my eyes out. The trifecta of physical response to emotional stimulus.

The culprit for this near I-Can’t-Properly-Clean-This-Mess-Up-So-I-Have-To-Replace-The-Carpet disaster was my sister-in-law’s innocuous birthday post on my ex-girlfriend’s wall.

All week, I subconsciously knew today was The Birthday of the Ex. Heck, I celebrated it with her on a few occasions, I should know. But the actual thought of it wasn’t at all present in my mind – and therefore not consciously linked to my emotional shenaniganery this week – until I saw my SIL’s post.

As Facebook aficionados know, you do the Who-The-Heck-Is-This-Person-Again?, She-Might-Be-A-Stalker, and I-Haven’t-Talked-To-This-Person-In-Months cleanups every so often, but there are always a few folks who slip past the net. Plus, I still considered my ex a friend in some capacity after the dust had settled. But this post that my SIL so innocently and lovingly typed on my ex-girlfriend’s wall had me reeling and suffering an overload of memories that just had me feeling…I don’t know, icky! I felt like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters. Slimed.

After a few hours alone in my apartment thinking (read: drinking), I’ve come to the conclusion that ~~I never have enough whiskey in the house~~ every year will invariably hold this The Birthday of the Ex hurdle so I have to face it head on. November 10^th isn’t even the first date for this occasion; I’ve done it before. For a handful of years, June 17^th was The Birthday of the Ex that held the same angst ridden, memory indexing, and soul wrenching feeling after my previous girlfriend and I split up. But each year that hers passed, The Birthday of the Ex effect was lessened. And after today passes, each November 10^th will be easier to handle and will provide less trifecta-inducing reflection.

In the end, I hope that November 10^th will be the last The Birthday of the Ex for which I mourn; the last whiskey-filled The Birthday of the Ex pity party. Because there will be no more ex-girlfriends. And when I meet the woman for whom I strive to share my love, her birthday will simply be The Birthday of the Love of My Life.

The Death of Rock was published on Thought Catalog

Fri, 04 Nov 2011 11:02:00 -0700

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/the-death-of-rock/

October 2011.

I have released eight albums in eight years. Six hours and twenty-four minutes of music. I feel squeezed dry. The last trickles of music seeping from my pores like blood. I’ve sat in my bedroom with a guitar between my heart and my hands and found melodies and textures that never seemed to be my possession. I simply felt them floating in the air and then funneled them onto my fingerboard.

And eight years of ceaseless inner pressure to create an album better than the last one. To discover ideas more stimulating than the previous. To find a better path to my true self.

I am exhausted. And it’s time to rest my bones. Flip the amp to standby. No. Switch it off. Let the tubes cool down like the October air outside. Place my weathered guitar snugly in its case and close the lid to its coffin. Lock the door to the room in which these tools of my ears rest.

Go home. To be alone. Away from the static and racket of creative struggle. The struggle to find something meaningful to say. The struggle to find a better way of listening; a better way of communicating. I am so tired of this process.

The weight of these albums is unbearable. Let them die. They have served their purpose. I am unable and unwilling to learn from them. Read them their last rites. Bury them. Deep. Mark their graves with wooden signs. Visit the gravesites on occasion. Wear my dark glasses and toss flowers to the ground while the rain falls from my cheeks.

When each of these albums was finished, my soul went quiet. I knew nothing of what was next. But each time I had something more to say. Now I do not. I feel no music surrounding my soul. No melodies waiting to be plucked from the air and transformed into emotional conjuring.

I will not mourn forever though. I will celebrate the creative ingenuity and the blessing of my soul’s ear. Eight years of channeling creation. Eight years of challenging myself to find my proper tuning.

But I know these albums will rise again. I will learn the spell to raise them from the dead. To bring their ashes back to form. I will send them into the night. I will call them out by name. One by one. And after they dig through the earth under which they have remained silent for so long, they will slide across telephone poles, creep through the walls of houses, and bury themselves in the ear canals of humans where they will find the fresh wrinkles of brain that they seek.

They will rise again.

But not this October.

Divorce On the First Date was published at Thought Catalog

Wed, 02 Nov 2011 21:59:00 -0700

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/divorce-on-the-first-date/

“I don’t believe in divorce,” Lisa declared in between bites of her spinach lasagna.

“Uh, I’m sorry?” I inquired as my mind jarringly shifted from the lovely drought of wine I just swallowed to the thought of a ferociously sensitive and heart-wrenching topic.

“I don’t believe anyone who gets married should ever get a divorce.”

I was perplexed. I’m sure my face hardened with judgment despite my attempts to cycle through the mantra, “Benefit of the doubt,” “Benefit of the doubt,” “Give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“Divorce is wrong,” she said confidently.

And there it was: The truth. In her eyes. The end of this relationship in mine. Suddenly my pasta primavera tasted less hearty; the wine less smooth.

“I think in marriage, all problems can be fixed through hard work,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Unable to respond in a friendly manner at this point, I immediately lost myself in the thought of how I should end this date. Should I just end it right now? Throw my money angrily on the table and storm out? Should I muscle through? Shovel my meal down in a frenzy, walk her to her car, and say, “So long divorce hater!” Should I never call her again? Or perhaps this could just be a one-nighter. Get a few more glasses of wine, get a little saucy, go back to mine and tear each other’s clothes off? But more likely, this was the moment my therapist was talking about. The moment when I had to look more deeply than the first sign of a red flag.

Too many times have I chalked up a failed attempt at a relationship to being simple disinterest. Disinterest stemming from her toes are crooked, she makes this weird face when we’re about to kiss, she was rude to the guy who sold us our movie tickets, she’s sexually inhibited, she’s a smoker, she doesn’t understand the difference between childlike and childish, she doesn’t know how to open her heart to love, and so forth, and so on.

But that’s what my therapist observed. And when he pointed it out for the first time, I literally laughed out loud. He said, “When things get uncomfortable for you, Steve, you let go. You move on emotionally before the relationship is even over. You flip a switch.” And he was right! It was as if he was watching each of my dates from across the restaurant behind an upside down New York Times and a fake beard. But he has a real beard. And a real point. So perhaps this was the opportunity to confront that discomfort; stand up to the fear it represented.

Step one: Seek first to understand.

“What about physical or emotional abuse?” I challenged Lisa, trying to hide my distaste for her obvious lack of experience with divorce. An act which can be the first step toward freeing and empowering victims of abuse.

“Therapy,” she offered.

“And if one party isn’t interested?”

“Well, you need to know who you’re marrying before you marry,” she responded smugly. I could almost taste the bile rushing from my stomach to the back of my throat.

She continued on, detailing that growing up to first generation Filipino parents as a Catholic in Texas, nothing was more defiling to God — or her parents, for that matter — than divorce. My disbelief and disgust that she believed what she was saying was immobilizing. My face still was hardened. My shoulders were stiff. My right hand gripped my glass of wine while my left clutched the arm of the chair in which I sat. I finally spoke, revealing the source of my angst and tension.

“My parents are divorced,” I said.

Her face turned pale. Then a faint shade of red. Her mouth quietly gaped open. Her eyes sought comfort in the basket of bread on the table between us. I shared four words. But four were all she needed to realize that unloading her opinion about such a sensitive subject on a first date wasn’t necessarily the most tactful idea. Despite my anger, frustration, and willingness to bail, I let her explain her feelings while maintaining my composure.

Step two: Share the reason that triggered the switch to be flipped.

“My parents were divorced when I was ten years old,” I went on as Lisa fell silent. “There was no abuse, but my dad didn’t know who he was. He hated himself. He didn’t know how to be loved. He was negative all the time; couldn’t communicate. My mother couldn’t deal with it, so they got divorced. But now, twenty-two years later, they’re friends. They actually come to LA together to visit me from Massachusetts. They go to the movies on weekends and visit my brother’s family together. It’s weird, but it’s awesome. That divorce was the best thing that ever happened to my family. I can’t imagine how awful things might’ve been had they stayed together.”

I opened up. Against my initial feeling of being trapped and defensive. I let my walls down for a moment. My face softened. My shoulders laxed. My right hand lifted the glass of wine towards my lips. My left found its place on the table next to my plate.

Step three: Extend the benefit of the doubt.

She continued to explain that despite her parents being together, they slept in different rooms and hardly ever interacted. Dad travelled a lot. Mom kept away from the house when he was home. It wasn’t pretty, but divorce wasn’t even something that ever entered the discussion; it just wasn’t acceptable.

I sympathized for her. I felt her distress. But I still didn’t fully understand why she despised divorce as much as she did. If her parents didn’t love each other, what was the point of staying together? Why bother playing house? What’s a relationship without communication? Why defend a relationship that is clearly irreparable? I had to figure this out or get out.

But before I flipped the table and bolted for the nearest door, my mind found itself on a thought of acceptance and forgiveness. The thought that everyone deserves acceptance for their feelings, no matter how different they may be from my own. And each of us deserves forgiveness for the judgments we make. Including me. Then everything became perfectly clear. As if I was sitting across from my bearded therapist in the armchair with the green and beige palm tree pattern. I didn’t need to figure this out. I didn’tneed to get out. I was inside of an uncomfortable moment, yes, but this was certainly not any reason for me to jump ship so hastily. I needed to forgive myself for wanting to jump ship and for so vehemently denying this woman a chance to see me from the inside out because of one difference in our beliefs.

So, she didn’t believe in divorce. So what? Were we married? Were we planning on getting married? Were we even dating? Or was I just taking this woman out to dinner to get to know her better? To find out whom she was on the inside? To potentially find someone who I could fall in love with, begin a life with, and not get divorced from?

Lisa excused herself to use the restroom, but before she got up, she gently rested her right hand on my left hand and said in her subtle southern accent, “Ya know, I’m not going to jump out the bathroom window. I’m looking forward to getting back to the fun conversation.”

“I’ll be right here,” I responded. And I meant it.

The pair were smitten. Fashioned from the same cloth. Found...

Wed, 02 Nov 2011 21:48:00 -0700

The pair were smitten.

Fashioned from the same cloth.

Found each other in the

daylight - beyond a false

sheet of glass doubling as

a mirror. They etched each

other into their hearts

and drank each other’s

tears. They worshipped

love together. And

wove their lives into

a parachute. They

allowed it to be:

So it was.

I Write At Night

Wed, 02 Nov 2011 17:19:00 -0700

There’s a word for how I prepare for bed. It’s spelled R-O-U-T-I-N-E.

I pour my glass of water, drain my bladder, wash my hands, floss, brush, take a sip from the glass, shut off my cell phone, stretch my back and legs, and climb into bed.

But it doesn’t end there.

I open the top drawer of the nightstand to the left of my bed and unveil my journal and its dedicated pen. I open it. And I write. For myself. By myself.

Then I write down the time, date, and number of entry and gently pack it away to be retrieved tomorrow night.

The journal holds the keys to the revving engine of my soul. It has its own personality yet reflects the evolution of mine. It is the evolution of me. And it interjects creativity into the otherwise blasé nightly R-O-U-T-I-N-E.

Marilyn's Dress

Tue, 01 Nov 2011 18:23:00 -0700

The tablecloths reminded me of Marilyn Monroe when they caught a sudden gust of wind. It kind of turned me on a little, actually. But my wife didn’t share the same rousing “tingle” in her britches when I gently nudged her with this visual. In fact, upon the breath of my first chuckle, she immediately threw bolts of lightning into my chest with her eyes, cracked the asphalt with her foot, and stormed over to the curbside patio. Which was across Melrose! And it was Saturday at 2:00pm! And she didn’t use the crosswalk! Then she stood defiantly next to the first “Marilyn” table, turned around to face me - again, this was across Melrose traffic on a sunny Saturday afternoon - and shouted, “Is THIS what you want!” And by God if she didn’t yank that pure, soft, white tablecloth off that poor little table like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.

Forks and knives sparkled like glitter in Times Square. Plates spun like UFOs in a 1950s sci-fi film. Glasses revolved end over end in slow motion like the final leg of a heated flip-cup match in the college dorm.

Only instead of cheers, or overdramatic hysterics, or a deafening roar of victory from her audience, my wife received a truckload of “this lady’s crazy” looks as well as some classic snooty French waiter stares. Yikes.

I, however, sneaked a few chuckles in under a cleverly placed cough.*Ahem*

Sufficed to say, the car ride home was a teensy bit awkward. But I managed. As outdoor cafés and restaurants passed by on the sides of the street, I silently fantasized about the tables’ dresses catching a gentle, but stiff, breeze.