Still breathing

I’m pretty deep into this training montage. You’d think the big victory scene would have unfolded. I have been working hard on the one thing I should have been working on all along. Me. Many lifetimes ago I railed against the arrogant selfishness of the college student who went into the wild and died in an abandoned trailer having scrawled “Happiness is only true when shared” in his journal during his final moments.

This experiment in relative social isolation and laser focus has taken several meandering paths. As usual false starts, bad habits and crutches reared their ugly heads and had to be swatted, burned, and beaten into submission. The slow and subtle inexorable effects of time passing are making their presence keenly felt.

The men behind the curtain are getting careless. The country is falling apart at the seams and yet day in and day out I see people running around and around. Some are running in circles and others are running in place chasing and chasing the win.

I feel the rolling moods cloudy in the morning and giving way to unrepentant optimistic sunshine before melting into a fiery sunset and fading into a forlorn night grasping at the slippery beauty just beyond the horizon.

Work like Hell

Armed with a serenity prayer and a calmly centered fury of focus I have scratched, crawled, and clawed my way back towards the light. I have stripped away all that is unnecessary and harnessed my one true talent, an existential refusal to quit. This stubborn determination has once again lit the rocket fuel within.

“Grace is when you get something you deserve. Mercy is when you don’t get something that you do.”

I am ever grateful for this moment in time where i can give it maximum effort without distractions and unleash the full power of everything I have learned. All of the pain, the torment, the regret, the shame, the guilt, the indulgence, the hedonism and the nihilism are melting into oblivion as I attain escape velocity.

The simple truth is that this isn’t about me and it never was.

The Long Road Home

Venti Cold Brew Black.

I’ve since removed the double shot from my morning overdose of caffeine, but the large black iced coffee is the last indulgence of a past life.

It’s only 9am and already the sun feels irrationally strong. Clear blue skies, sunny days and palm trees.

Gone are the bitterly cold winter days, the offensively humid summer afternoons, the hyperallergenic springs and the melancholy autumns. I miss them dearly.

Gone are the endless meetings, the whirring of counting machines, the 10 course dinners, the scotch stained nights, off key ballads and cottonmouth mornings. I miss them slightly.

Yesterday I built a raised vegetable box and a bench with fir wood from Home Depot. I carried sacks of ridiculously heavy organic soil and tossed them over a fence. I tilled the soil and repotted some cucumbers, tomatoes, cantaloupes and wildflowers. When all was said and done I was covered in dirt, sweat, bugs and a strange sense of satisfaction.

Despite my cliched attempts at casting off my ambitions I find myself drawn to the entrepreneurial flames yet again. It’s taken months to regain some of my footing and I am still racing against the clock and battling the darkness that threatens to put a premature end to my ressurection.

Once more unto the breach.

 

 

 

Getting lost in motion

The days have turned into months. Each week rolls over the last like another layer of paint over a rough blood and tear stained wall. Heart in the air, head in the sand and my mind obstinately hidden within the illusory comfort of inane daily activities. When I was drowning in the action I craved and yearned for the sanctity of these idle moments at the end of the day. That small pocket of peace when the world grows quiet and your mind winds down in preparation for slumber.

During this reprieve I would reflect upon the day, scribble a few sentences in my five year journal and steel myself for another day of hacking and slashing my way towards my lofty goals. The bloodthirsty pursuit of massive wealth by any means necessary. I articulated it in much more flowery prose. Achievement, success, creating, establishing, goal setting, dream weaving and all the other euphemisms for hedonistic material accumulation.

I swung and I missed. More than once. More than twice. More than I can recall and much more than I’d like to remember. I missed so many times that eventually my bat broke and I walked off the field. Now that there is some physical and temporal distance from the epicenter of my latest failure I can look back through a new lens upon my follies.

A tragic comedy of errors with disastrous results. A mentor once told me that success isn’t what you get, success is the person you become. The person I have become would have wistful empathy and pity for the person I was. That person  I was would also look upon my current incarnation with similar pity.

Is there a road to redemption or does it lead to perdition?

Zig, can a wandering generality find his way back to being a meaningful specific?

 

 

Hole punched

With a benign neglect cultivated over years of unremarkable civil service, the woman picked up the faded pink plastic handle of her trusty hole puncher and eviscerated my New York Driver’s License leaving a gaping ironic hole where the expiration date once laid idly reminding everyone of a distant future yet to be realized.

I had not anticipated the groundswell of melodrama a simple trip to the DMV would have evoked within the tattered remnants of my soul. The DMV veteran handed back my mutilated identification and I was whisked down a long highway of memories. I remembered taking the photo at a random DMV in Peekskill, NY in 2006 after a scenic country drive to a small town next to Briarcliff Manor for reasons still known only to very few. This mugshot-esque photo would serve as my identification for the next decade. The photo is a monochrome and expressionless portrait of the person I once was, youthful features offset by steely eyes (the effects magnified by oh so fashionable gray contact lenses.)

Like too many other things in my life, my new license was built on a lie, reinforced with an omission and finished with a veneer of pithy optimism manifesting in the form of a well worn grin. (They encourage smiling in your driver’s license photos in this state. WTF?) All of a sudden as abruptly and unceremoniously as I had left the Empire State I was similarly done at the DMV. Off into the sunshine with a hole punched into my former ID, a piece that will forever missing. Perhaps the same piece that has always been missing. The insatiable void that no amount of money, infamy, gluttony, debauchery or glory real or imagined was ever able to fill.

 

Last Christmas

RIP George Michael.

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The classic carol by Wham! fueled many emotional trips down memory lane many lifetimes ago. This time of year often brings a tidal wave of reminiscences and Scrooge like bouts of what ifs to plague the mind. 5 years ago I was gifted an ingenious little book entitle the Happiness project. A daily one sentence journal to capture the essence of every day for five years. Despite all of the things that I’ve done, all of the things I haven’t done and all of the many things I should and should not have done, I have religiously and dogmatically logged my entries into this tiny tome of idle thoughts. Somehow this sturdy 370 page journal has survived this apocalyptic roller coaster ride with me since Christmas Eve 2012.

Just a handful of years have bore witness to more experiences than I ever expected in this lifetime. To be able to sift through the texture and nuance of each granular moment throughout this journey is a kaleidoscopic sensory delight and emotional jack in the box. Each page is also accompanied with a quote which lands differently every single year. “The days are long, but the years are short.” “In the tumult of daily life, it can be hard to appreciate the ordinary day, to realize how precious it is, and how fleeting.”

There have been so many moments I would have traded anything for those handful of other moments. Yet I find myself having traded everything for these moments and these will shape the rest into eternity. The wheel continues to turn whether it’s a car tire, a grindstone or a hamster’s treadmill remains to be seen.

Now I know what a fool I’ve been, but if you….

 

Freedom’s antonym

What is the opposite of freedom?

Three years ago I had it stripped away out of the blue. A mentor once taught me “handle your details or they will handle you.” My details kicked my ass and continue to do so. Uncertainty breeds fear, yet we all come into this world certain that we will leave it, and generally uncertain about when.

In all of that time between the entry and the exit we have an endless array of choices to choose from. By we I am referring to those of us fortunate enough to win the genetic lottery and be born into a segment of global society which has the wherewithal to read blogs. The amount of good fortune, infrastructure and free time already puts us in an extremely elite slice of humanity.

We have been granted the right to opine and emote in the digital ether. We aren’t dodging cluster bombs, IEDs or guided missiles. We get to roll around in our bona fide first world problems which hundreds of millions if not billions of other souls would kill for. There are moments where I am truly ashamed of how I have squandered my freedom in the relentless pursuit of the hypothetical, the theoretical and the aspirational.

But I definitely believe in second chances even third and fourth ones because I have wasted those as well. Basking in my simulacrum of freedom on the anniversary of a dark day. Life certainly knows how to tell a joke.