Month: October 2011

reset

There is suspicion in my thoughts. My gut tells me things, at moments like this, at home, in the dark, after a day of work and reflections on stray thoughts. It warns me about who I trust. It tells me something isn’t right in my life. Doubt stems from uncertainty. The cycles between realizations are becoming shorter and shorter, as is the recovery time. I believe that this is how a life works.

The notion sprung into my mind in a meeting this afternoon.

I do not care.

We prattled on about process and upward mobility. Theresa was bubbly, John reiterated his corporate ambition, Nabil was insightful, and Ryan waited for the meeting to end. If I weren’t the stickler for getting things done I would’ve joined him in silence. Instead, I took notes, chimed in from time to time. I am in charge, after all. Somehow I am always in charge.

I see this a lot these days. Those of us who have been doing this for a while become more detached, and less involved in the stress of it all. The more motivated employees might be adept at feigning ambition, if only for steady income, but others begin to fade from the scene. There is only so much challenge in this work. This life. Middle management is notorious for a good reason. It becomes the most draining kind of rut if someone is not ambitious enough to climb ever higher up the ladder for the sake of simply climbing.

For instance: eleven in the morning is not an acceptable start time, and yet I do it because I can. No one dares to call me out. I have established that the work speaks for itself, as it should.

I simply know that I am done climbing this ladder.

What else can I do? What else can I learn?

I’m planning a reset in the desert before I take any immediate action. Lots of water, the tarp for the tent in case it rains. No food. A form of forced physical introspection that I have found to be beneficial. Everything is sharpened by eliminating all but the most immediate thoughts. After the first day I cease to be hungry. By the third day I feel all skin and bone. All thought is minimal and I know what to do.

reset

There is suspicion in my thoughts. My gut tells me things, at moments like this, at home, in the dark, after a day of work and reflections on stray thoughts. It warns me about who I trust. It tells me something isn’t right in my life. Doubt stems from uncertainty. The cycles between realizations are becoming shorter and shorter, as is the recovery time. I believe that this is how a life works.

The notion sprung into my mind in a meeting this afternoon.

I do not care.

We prattled on about process and upward mobility. Theresa was bubbly, John reiterated his corporate ambition, Nabil was insightful, and Ryan waited for the meeting to end. If I weren’t the stickler for getting things done I would’ve joined him in silence. Instead, I took notes, chimed in from time to time. I am in charge, after all. Somehow I am always in charge.

I see this a lot these days. Those of us who have been doing this for a while become more detached, and less involved in the stress of it all. The more motivated employees might be adept at feigning ambition, if only for steady income, but others begin to fade from the scene. There is only so much challenge in this work. This life. Middle management is notorious for a good reason. It becomes the most draining kind of rut if someone is not ambitious enough to climb ever higher up the ladder for the sake of simply climbing.

For instance: eleven in the morning is not an acceptable start time, and yet I do it because I can. No one dares to call me out. I have established that the work speaks for itself, as it should.

I simply know that I am done climbing this ladder.

What else can I do? What else can I learn?

I’m planning a reset in the desert before I take any immediate action. Lots of water, the tarp for the tent in case it rains. No food. A form of forced physical introspection that I have found to be beneficial. Everything is sharpened by eliminating all but the most immediate thoughts. After the first day I cease to be hungry. By the third day I feel all skin and bone. All thought is minimal and I know what to do.

Anonymous asked: What’s the youngest you would date?

I would like to think that the stache prompted this.

I was seeing a 17-year old some years back and that was a disaster, which put me off dating at all for a long while, especially women many years younger than I am. Since then I’ve been interested in women many years younger and older than myself. The numbers become irrelevant when two individuals share a certain level of maturity and similar attitudes.

So, the youngest I would date? That depends entirely on who we’re talking about.

understand

What I seek isn’t to depress myself—though that may occur from time to time—but to understand the ways in which I am broken. There is little doubt that these undesirable qualities have manifested themselves in my behavior. Instead, I can only hope and strive to achieve a balance in which my desirable qualities are not used to hide those broken aspects of who I am but to be a source of strength, both for myself and the people who are fortunate enough to know me as few others do. Those who also seek to understand, and who I wish to know intimately. By their presence, and their love, I can only become stronger, but I will always have the strength to walk as a broken man and succeed.

understand

What I seek isn’t to depress myself—though that may occur from time to time—but to understand the ways in which I am broken. There is little doubt that these undesirable qualities have manifested themselves in my behavior. Instead, I can only hope and strive to achieve a balance in which my desirable qualities are not used to hide those broken aspects of who I am but to be a source of strength, both for myself and the people who are fortunate enough to know me as few others do. Those who also seek to understand, and who I wish to know intimately. By their presence, and their love, I can only become stronger, but I will always have the strength to walk as a broken man and succeed.

Anonymous asked: What’s the youngest you would date?

I would like to think that the stache prompted this.

I was seeing a 17-year old some years back and that was a disaster, which put me off dating at all for a long while, especially women many years younger than I am. Since then I’ve been interested in women many years younger and older than myself. The numbers become irrelevant when two individuals share a certain level of maturity and similar attitudes.

So, the youngest I would date? That depends entirely on who we’re talking about.

shattered

There’s something to be said for the desire to shatter a being so completely that there aren’t any words left to say. Noises, maybe, but nothing intelligible as thought. And that’s just it—absence of thought. You take every emotion and pull it out of its bedding, rifling the room and everything else so that it becomes a state of intensified agitation and need. Whether it’s hatred, rage, frustration, etc., it all comes pouring out, like the proverbial tears that we all willfully attempt to contain. You force it out through what is essentially psychological and physiological torture. All the pain oozes to the surface and then away into the ether, leaving a spent shell of humanity that is in that moment as vulnerable as the newborn upon exiting the womb.

Then she wakes up, of course, and returns to herself.

Twenty

Sticky got me thinking about twenty. Namely, what the hell was I up to?

This must have been after the one-night stand. I was certainly with the older woman who had a son. Wild one she was. Cool kid, too. This means that twenty was when I realized it’s not for me, the casual thing. Too unstable. I’ve had to relearn this lesson again since then, but fucking up’s about as necessary as walking. Learn from my mistakes. Tell me so.

Really into video games. I wrote a fuckton of game guides (the earliest onset of any interesting in writing). I spent a hell of a lot of time playing video games. Good ones, bad ones. There were probably many guns involved. 2003. The Internet was a newish thing. Computers were slow as hell. Everything was written in Notepad. No more than 79 characters wide. It’s strange what sticks to your memory.

That must have been when I decided to do this for money. Video games. What’s better than getting paid to fuck around with video games all day? I found out the following year. It’s alright, all things considered. I learned about office politics and conduct in the work place. I was no different at twenty than I was at eighteen. It was all mind-boggling. Just some kid from Inglewood, you know. None of it prepares you for real people. None of it prepares you for people who aren’t real.

I’d stopped smoking by then. I’m pretty sure. It was toward the end of any notions of rebellion. Hell’s bells did not a-hang off of me, I’ll tell you that. L.A. What can you say about Los Angeles when you own a car? Went all over the place. Shitty beer was alright when investment in quality was low on the pole. I was hangover-proof. I could chug shit like any ol’ bro. I didn’t do this often, but I did. I used to be good at billiards. I would’ve hustled you good.

I can’t regret any of it. Not the apathy, not the indifference, not the living at home when my gut told me to leave. It took care of itself in time. I took care of it. Twenty came and went like a can of cheap beer.

shattered

There’s something to be said for the desire to shatter a being so completely that there aren’t any words left to say. Noises, maybe, but nothing intelligible as thought. And that’s just it—absence of thought. You take every emotion and pull it out of its bedding, rifling the room and everything else so that it becomes a state of intensified agitation and need. Whether it’s hatred, rage, frustration, etc., it all comes pouring out, like the proverbial tears that we all willfully attempt to contain. You force it out through what is essentially psychological and physiological torture. All the pain oozes to the surface and then away into the ether, leaving a spent shell of humanity that is in that moment as vulnerable as the newborn upon exiting the womb.

Then she wakes up, of course, and returns to herself.

Twenty

Sticky got me thinking about twenty. Namely, what the hell was I up to?

This must have been after the one-night stand. I was certainly with the older woman who had a son. Wild one she was. Cool kid, too. This means that twenty was when I realized it’s not for me, the casual thing. Too unstable. I’ve had to relearn this lesson again since then, but fucking up’s about as necessary as walking. Learn from my mistakes. Tell me so.

Really into video games. I wrote a fuckton of game guides (the earliest onset of any interesting in writing). I spent a hell of a lot of time playing video games. Good ones, bad ones. There were probably many guns involved. 2003. The Internet was a newish thing. Computers were slow as hell. Everything was written in Notepad. No more than 79 characters wide. It’s strange what sticks to your memory.

That must have been when I decided to do this for money. Video games. What’s better than getting paid to fuck around with video games all day? I found out the following year. It’s alright, all things considered. I learned about office politics and conduct in the work place. I was no different at twenty than I was at eighteen. It was all mind-boggling. Just some kid from Inglewood, you know. None of it prepares you for real people. None of it prepares you for people who aren’t real.

I’d stopped smoking by then. I’m pretty sure. It was toward the end of any notions of rebellion. Hell’s bells did not a-hang off of me, I’ll tell you that. L.A. What can you say about Los Angeles when you own a car? Went all over the place. Shitty beer was alright when investment in quality was low on the pole. I was hangover-proof. I could chug shit like any ol’ bro. I didn’t do this often, but I did. I used to be good at billiards. I would’ve hustled you good.

I can’t regret any of it. Not the apathy, not the indifference, not the living at home when my gut told me to leave. It took care of itself in time. I took care of it. Twenty came and went like a can of cheap beer.