Pierce and Seventh

Excitement is in the air.

I've been meditating steadily over the past couple of weeks, as well as sleeping more and eating better and exercising, in a program I call Bitches to Riches. It's a reappraisal of the fast-paced, hyperspeed luxury life of college and middle-class semi-affluence; it's slowing down, living in the moment, and grabbing hold of the opportunities on a daily basis.

It's walking away from grades, public accolades, and the outside world's inconsistencies. Bitches to Riches re-invests in the self...and that's a fine thing by me.

Because it's all about simplicity. Focus. Creativity bound not by subject, but by practice. If we want to achieve half the shit we dream about, the first step is reaching inner harmony. Coming to terms with the past (and the choices of the present) is the first step. We didn't choose our families, we didn't choose the circumstances of our childhood or adolescence...but we are, ultimately, responsible for how we act upon it.

I've had to overcome quite a bit of nonsense in my life, but now, at the end of the long crawl out of the emotional sewer, I'm a much, much stronger person because of it. The present is possible and the future is bright because I know the other side...I know something of how bad it gets. I can only imagine that what lies ahead will be equivalent in gravity, depth and perspective...except in a positive way.

This week, I designed a mission statement for a graphic design class. Hopefully you can read the text...



That said, it's a somewhat creepy feeling when the fatigue and bad attitudes get handled, and are replaced with hope and realization. I'd be the first to admit I'm afraid of success. But for once, this is something I'm just going to run with. Contentment unfolds around me, not just because I worked for it, but also because I believe in it, despite the fear.

Sometimes we just have to shut the fuck up and let ourselves become re-aquainted with the living that surrounds us.

Presentation

I've come to dislike a lot of things.

But instead of naming them all, or even some, I'll just say why I've come to feel how I feel. After all, the real truth is not in how things are, but how they came about.

For the past year and a half, I don't think I've harbored any more than two or three grand aspirations. In my own mind, I'd been so focused on just getting through the day and the various little peaks or valleys that came along with it. It was predominantly logic and efficiency, and the avoidance of pain. But in the end, that left me with a year and a half's worth of experiences that really didn't mean a whole hell of a lot. I ventured little and gained little.

I also noticed that no matter how funny you are, people, in the end, don't really give a shit. I know a lot of smart bullshitters in the comedic realm, but I can guarantee if you get any of them drunk enough, they'll admit the same. If you aren't making (most) people laugh, or entertaining them somehow, they lose interest real goddamned quick. Hell...I've had shows that went so fucking well even my cheap ass would have paid money to see them...but you know what that comedy got me, in terms of attracting excellent people or getting closer to those grand aspirations?

Nothing.* I got a few good evenings or afternoons of dicking around with friends...which isn't bad, but doesn't exactly feed the soul.

Which is somewhat ironic, as I've re-examined those grand aspirations, the things I love that feed my soul, and they aren't that particularly grand. They're really just about getting basic needs met. Having accepting and encouraging friends, finding romantic love, finding a purpose in life...these are all elemental human needs I must fulfill in order to achieve contentment.

Which is why I haven't been content in the past 1.5 years; needs, not to mention wants, have been unfulfilled. And it's only because of fear.

I've been afraid of a lot of things, from the very specific to the very meta-human. I've been afraid of things varying from wearing military uniforms in public for fear of being crucified by a band or roid-rage brodawgs to actually getting my needs met, but having it taken away shortly thereafter. Mainly, I've been afraid of being personally forthright and being emotionally deep towards others.

Both fears are, I believe, pretty goddamned telling. Something as simple as being able to wear what you want to wear without fear of reprisal is one of the most key securities in life; presentation is so important in our society, and if I know that solely by what I'm wearing, I'm going to alienate most of the people I meet...well, that makes me a little weary about both expressing who I am, and putting in the effort to relate to others.

As for the fear of contentment...I gotta say, that one hit me unexpectedly. It runs counter to logic...but lo and behold, there it is. I, and I believe many others, are afraid of getting what we've always wanted because we know what it's like to live without it, and never, ever want to go back. One would think that we'd be, by now, so willing to openly express our emotions that it'd be bursting at the seams. But that's not the case at all...we know that no matter what, we can rely on ourselves to make our solitary lives as content as possible...but putting faith in others, that they'll put in just as much work as you will...fuck that. There's no worse feeling than achieving fulfillment, and having it taken away by forces beyond your control.

Because of that fear, however, I've rarely reached out to anyone, or at the very least, expressed the full scope of who I am in a public sense. Instead, I've most often presented myself as an asexual semi-Victorian funnyman with a penchant for theatrics.

Well, what about deep emotion? What about experience? What about expression? What about sexuality? Concealed and hidden, left to specific places and singular moments.

So, I resolve to be fully myself more consistently, and in turn will attract people who see, encourage and love all I can be, instead of the traits they like the best. Thereafter, I'll be more motivated expect the best, and to stop apologizing for being who I am to naysayers or strangers.

I read a study recently that said, based on criteria of getting personal needs and wants met, only about 15% of the population is really happy. Which fascinated me...I've always wondered why most of the people I meet are so...transitory. I wondered why I was okay with giving them a half-assed effort, or why they only had about ten minutes' worth of interesting conversation...or, more pervasively, why I'm uncomfortable around them. Hell, I might not be the most charismatic fellow, but I know where I'm coming from, and rarely feel awkward in public.

Well, it's because most people are uncomfortable around themselves. Most people might be able to fool most other people, but goddamnit, I sense it, and quite honestly, it makes social interaction a little fucking creepy. They don't want to face the depth, and they sure as fuck don't want you to, either.

It took me a long time not to be angry about this, or even disappointed. Fortunately, I'm at a place in my own self-development where I know that others' discontent does not entail my discontent, but shit, man...that doesn't make it any easier to meet person after person, only to see within them the same defensive, scared kid I was a few years ago.

Hmm...there wasn't an over-arching point to this, other than a psued-public reminder to myself to fucking relax, be myself, and have faith in the outcome. And as for you, dear reader (if you think the above applies to you, which it probably does)...just know that there are individuals out there who can see your fear. They can see through the bullshit presentation to the chaos that lies beneath...and for your sake, I hope they'll know how to handle it.

For a long time, I didn't...but I'm learning. I know that in my past, people saw my fear but didn't know how to approach it. So, the process continued, and I kept being afraid until I got so sick of being a follower I just started speaking my mind. Keeping it in any longer would have led to sheer insanity.

But right now, I want to be an attractive personality, not to anyone and everyone, but to other inwardly-content people who are looking to stake their claim in the public sphere. I want to attract people who consistently know who they are, what they want, and have the maturity and self-respect to achieve that for themselves, and the empathy and compassion to bring that out in others.

As I become my own personal, spiritual, and social leader, those I value the most in my life are fellow leaders. I want comprehending and empathetic souls who know where I'm coming from without an explanatory monologue. All I know is I don't want to go back to being afraid of being myself, or being myself in public...and if I've got to risk other people not understanding it, or people who talk a good game but crap out at crunch time, or bands of crucifying brodawgs, well, so fucking be it. That's what being a leader is...at the end of the day, if you're the only person left, you know you've got the strength to go it alone.

But that, by no means, is a preferred method of travel.

Do what you want, be who you are, express what you feel, and remain unshakable in all three. From there, the world can do nothing but rest in your hands, and hopefully, other leaders will make themselves known.

*This is a lie.

Compassionate Confidence

I've been feeling stifled lately, especially as a writer. As I get older, and travel further into the writing world, I'm beginning to see that much of what I have to say is, put bluntly, unscientific. And because of this, I lose a lot of readers in the gray area of tendencies, philosophies, and sentiments.

People want facts, but I don't offer many. I do offer somewhat abstract macro-observations of what is, sadly, a relatively limited lifestyle. Some find this interesting, many do not. But, for better or worse, this show must go on. I find myself compelled to write. You, however, are not compelled to read. Do what you see fit.

Okay, here we go.

In order to truly thrive, we need to live in an environment of compassion. But, in order to avoid reliance on that outside force too much, we must be aware of and confident in who we are. We must strike the right balance between boundaries and openness, to make ourselves available to others, but not prey to their manipulations.

We must love in order to be loved; but to do this, we must know how to love responsibly.

Which is tricky for those who have never (or rarely) loved, or have been loved. Where does the circle begin for them? Will they be loved first, have it awakened by an outside source, or must they find it within themselves? Is this even possible?

I've noticed recently that there's a relative relationship between confidence and compassion. In conducting a semi-formal case study of the women I've dated in the past year, I've found (generally) that the most compassionate of them were the least confident, and the most confident of them were the least compassionate. Those with the strongest sense of self, with purpose and ambition, were usually fucking piss-poor at empathy or building up others. Those with the weakest sense of self, with little ambition and purpose, were usually extremely apt at those skills.

This is, however, usually only true for women (but by no means definitively so). I've known many men with terrible confidence and absolutely zero empathy. As I said, science this ain't.

Well-balanced individuals need both a solid identity and the capability for compassionate connectivity...it's somewhat sad that, in the extreme cases I've seen, what the person needs the most, they're the least capable of achieving. Confident people (especially those who use it as a defense mechanism) often long for compassion, yet are unwilling to give it in order to not appear weak or needy. So, they rarely show it. Compassionate people (especially those who use compassion to keep others in their lives) long for strength, but are unwilling or unable to build it because of their reliance on others. And since so many people feel underloved, overly-compassionate people rarely have to search hard for willing hearts.

For both cases (presuming they haven't figured a happy median), they are either unwilling to love, or love too easily. Therefore, they cannot know real reciprocity until they break the supposed relational connection between confidence and compassion.

And it's rough to watch...it's always tough to see people you know and care about go through such misery. But how much can I, or anyone else, really help them? People can be so defensive, or so fragile...but I still see friends of mine (or even lovers) try as they might to get what they want, only to fall short because they hadn't taken the time to ask, "in order to find lasting love, what is required of me?" Or they did, but didn't like the answer.

So for them, the cycle continues. They cannot love with balance, and therefore will not be loved in balance. The only thing I can do to help them is write an essay like this, hoping it resounds in ready hearts.

Oh yeah...that's why I write.

Archie's Stairway Undercurrent

I have to be up in three and a half hours.

School, or whatever ASU is, begins at 8:45 on Monday, August 24, 2009...at least for me. Oy. Sure, there are Protestants who no doubt wake up earlier and love every minute of it. But for those of us who have habitually gone to bed at 7 AM every day for the past three months, the night is where we reside. Pale skin, cigarette smoke and controversial conversations are the norm; not granola, bike races and conferences on risk management.

This will not be a seamless transition.

But, it will happen. That's the turn of life, yeah? Shit passes into the night (or day), and it's gone forever. I will wake up tomorrow (today), summer in the past and fall in the future. And today...well, today is today. It is what you make it. Kind of.

I've never been particularly apt at letting go of the past. I don't know...perhaps some of us don't like to see time as particularly linear. I prefer to think of existence as a whole picture, and we each get to see a small part of it. Why differentiate what once was, what is, and what will be? At a certain point in time, all of your life was, is, or will be...so there's no sense in ascribing labels to a perspective that is, sadly, pretty fucking limited.

We might not be able to see everything at once, but sometimes it's comforting to try.

Sam and I were at a party on Saturday night...except it didn't feel like a party. Nobody was celebrating anything. MGMT's "Electric Feel" was playing on repeat inside the house. It was the perfect song for someone to drown to. Outside, brooding men were smoking in dark corners of the backyard. When I sat down on the patio, this girl looked at me without looking at me. It was not of a sexual nature. I became convinced she was one sentence away from making fun of me. She had it in her eyes. So I left.

I woke up today feeling pretty unpleasant. Adrift, if you will. This was remedied by two things; meditation and watching the video for Sugar Ray's hit "When it's Over," a song which may be the best part of 2001 (other than invading Afghanistan). When there isn't big shit in your world to make you stand up and clap your hands, you learn to appreciate the little things, such as Mark McGrath stating "let's just do what's right for the song...YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?!" and the rest of Sugar Ray laughing in unison.

Kind of makes you think that in 2001, being in Sugar Ray wasn't a bad fucking deal. That makes me smile.

What doesn't make me smile is waking up in three hours. But, I'm a nighthawk who can't let go of the past and probably has some form of social anxiety disorder. Is time really linear? Would that girl actually have made fun of me?

Should time be linear? Should that girl have made fun of me?

I don't know. So here's a picture of Audrey Hepburn holding a fawn, courtesy of robotboy66.blogspot.com:

Length of Love

As school approaches for what is to be my last year, I find myself confronted with a duality of attitude.

On one hand, I look forward to two new semesters of promise, of being back in the logical, learned world after a summer spent in the wilderness of emotion and impression. On the other, I realize (though perhaps still do not accept) the futility of expecting to find what I want from life (love, artistic fulfillment, etc.) in a university education.

In short, I love to learn, but what I'd most love to learn cannot be taught in a classroom. My ambition only extends to express what is so often suppressed in waking life (passion, dedication, love, understanding), and to receive it in turn. To these ends, I am willing to expend multitudes of effort and endure an equivalent amount of hardship to get what I want.

Yet, in nearly any other enterprise, my enthusiasm, let alone ambition, is minimal at best. Who would wish to explore an endless world without a partner at one's side, or at the very least, means to express the findings of such an exploration? Happiness, I believe, is worth less without someone to intimately share it with. It is possible, but without as great a depth.

So why pursue something good when you can pursue something better?

I crave love, not adventure. I await wiser years, not retroactive nostalgia. I seek the soul's fulfillment, not the soul's excitement. Adventure, excitement, and nostalgia are things I would much rather feel in company with love than in solitude.

Educational advancement, or the pursuit of knowledge, for example, may make the meantime more pleasant, but it does not bring one closer to love. Only with age, experience, and faith can one find the passion, the compassion, the understanding, that is what I (and many) others ultimately seek.

It would best serve me to come to terms with the pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of love not being necessarily correlated. One may assist in the other; ample knowledge may help in the quest for love, or being loved may promote enthusiasm to learn, but achievement in one area does not entail equivalent achievement in the other. A stupid person may be rich in love, and a smart person may be poor in it.

One who cannot love deeply will not feel love's depth, and one who cannot think deeply will not know knowledge's depth. But one does not need to think deeply in order to love as much, or vice-versa.

So, for this upcoming year, the last of my formal education and the last in this city, I resolve to do as I say, and say as I do. There is ample knowledge to be learned, so I shall learn it. There are, however, not ample people, places or things to love; yet I resolve to love those I find to be worthy of it with the entirety of my being.

I shall leave here with the conviction I did the best I could with what I had, when I had it.

Junior Varsity

I'm waiting to leave San Diego.

Sean is visiting a ladyfriend, Nick is still asleep, and I'm writing. I've been getting about five to six hours of sleep a night for the past week because of two, circular health issues:

1) I have allergies, and due to the mold in the air, feel as though someone's standing on my head every time I lie down.

2) I take over-the-counter shit for said allergies, which while alleviating the symptoms, also keeps me in a hyperactive state of readiness.

Being suffocated by someone's feet or at cat-like constant alert are two situations which are not conducive to sleep. Huzzah!

I had a point to this.

This trip has been at times glamourous, enlightening, boring, strange, kind of depressing, romantic, asexual, and often exhausting. Needless to say, it is not for the weak of heart; despite my ability to roll with shit pretty well, there comes a time when, in the words of Joan Didion, one has stayed too long at the fair. Amen, sister.

Yet without hesitation, this week I danced at a gay club, climbed foothills, got hammered, got high, roamed in the night, schmoozed, and very nearly kissed a girl (just to try it). I smoked more cigarettes than my rebellious respiratory system should have allowed. A wonderful girl named Marlyn told me I had a very nice ass, and in general, I was hit on more in this past week than in the preceding two months in Phoenix.

I was stunned by this. Phoenix, a place I am not always enamoured with, seems to be very good at producing young women who are both vaguely defensive and always in a long-term relationship. In short, Phoenix girls are harsh, disillusioned, and perpetually entangled. San Diego, however, seems to produce young women who are open, engaging, and single. Not to say they're always intelligent, but damn...I sure prefer open and engaging to defensive and unimpressed. Write that down in your copybooks.

San Diegans in general are nicer; even those with nothing have good vibes afoot. As I walked to the CVS to purchase macs & cheese, a homeless man said "yo, man, you in the Marines?" I said I was not. He said "right on, ya look sharp, man." Not one month ago in Phoenix, a homeless man threatened me in a parking lot outside of a terrible, terrible show.

Needless to say, the contrast was apparent.

Yet, in all the chaos of this trip, the zipping around from one Diegan borough to another, I've noticed something rather more all-encompassing. In fact, it hit me in one moment, akin to past moments of utter realization. Sunday night, I was sitting with a young lady on a couch; we sat in silence, but there were volumes of dialogue being spoken between us (If you've ever met someone and your chemistry just aligns perfectly, that's what I'm getting at). I held her hand and it felt wonderful...but not solely in a romantic sense. We looked at each other, and simply knew that life from here on out would be vastly different.

I realized a lot of my Phoenix life is, sadly, pretty pedestrian. Or, in the words of my former high school athlete brother, junior varsity. My life is the JV squad, with a few aspiring Juniors, but mostly the bulky Seniors who just didn't make the fucking Varsity cut. I'm carrying a lot of dead weight, fielding a team of benchwarmers for a game that asks for nothing short of being a fucking professional.

And another thing...I don't really like being funny. I like making friends laugh, or blowing off steam during the day (thank you, BMI shows), but in terms of living and breathing comedy...not really. Not to underscore it's potential, I just don't really get why some of us are funny and others aren't, why some get paid vast amounts of money for being witty, and others do it for free. Everybody should be funny. It should be like talking or walking or dancing.

Humour is a release, not a career.

Writing is the same (for me at least). If I could have a job that paid $45, 000 a year, and I actually liked the work, I wouldn't feel the need to show anyone, outside of this site or my close friends, the words I write. Art, in my humble opinion, should be shared with like minds, not anyone who can read, see or hear. We craft our works, choosing the words, imagery, or sound, with deliberation and care. Shouldn't we also be equally careful in who we share those choices with?

But, then again, I've developed this tendency for not sharing with anyone, at all, so perhaps I'm not the best person to be dispensing opinion. JV, guys.

During this vacation, though, I saw these things for what they are, not what I want (or don't want) them to be. The times for silent discontent are over. The times of saying "yes" to anyone and anything are over. I need to start living boldly, on my own terms. I need to start acting like an adult, with adult expectations and adult achievements.

I need to be ballin' with Danny Stern and the gents of the NBA.

So, I'm going to pack up the car and have a six-hour talk with my brother. Awaiting me at home is a British colonel's uniform I ordered off of Ebay, my parents, a house full of food, the emo family dog, and all the comforts and familiarities I've missed this week.

Yeah...returning to the familiar to best face the unknown.

No Sleep 'Til Federation

A few weeks ago, I discovered a continent.

I've developed a fascination with the Commonwealth of Australia. It began with a late-night Wikipedia adventure, where two-to-three-hour-long marathon sessions of pages and pages of material are perused. I have found many things about the world I inhabit, from the important (what peak oil means) to the trivial (the difference between London and Plymouth gin).

But that night, my journey began at the Sydney Opera House, then moved on to Sydney (and its suburbs), then the other major cities, then Australia as a whole. I found the country fascinating, but, despite a rudimentary Wiki-cation, I knew nothing about it. So, to satiate my desire to learn of this Twilight-Zone America (where everyone talked differently and nobody declared independence), I journeyed off to Hayden Library to see what I could learn of the Queen's Backyard.

Devouring volumes of political, cultural and military history, I have found Australia to be, until 1973, a fucking terrible country. Racist, militant, conservative, and with a serious inferiority complex, Australia before 1973 was not a place for elvish men of sensitive dispositions.

Especially if they weren't white.

But following the elections of that year, Gough Whitlam became Prime Minister on the Labour (liberal) Party ticket. He embarked upon a series of reforms so drastic and far-ranging that the Governor-General, the representative of the Queen, fired him a few years later for being such a nuisance to Australia's conservative upper class. But, like it or not, Whitlam got the ball rolling towards a more progressive, multicultural Australia. Suddenly, Aboriginal rights, women's rights, national health care and a reversal of racist immigration policies were no longer lofty dreams, but concrete realities.

Not to say Whitlam was divinely inspired, but he did inspire a lot of people to start asking questions and, in Sheriff Joe's vernacular, expecting the max, Australian-style.

And as such was born a nation I would like to live in.

I've never been there, but here is what Englishman Simon Hoggart said of Australians in Phillip Knightley's Australia: Biography of a Nation:

"Unlike [the British], Australians don't make an instant assessment of everyone they meet, based on speech, dress, accent and general appearance. It takes us a few seconds and we do it instinctively. By contrast, most Aussies like you until you prove them wrong, in which case they'll be greatly displeased."

...and when he visited Australia in 1997 said this in regards to the transformation:

"The notorious cultural cringe is going fast. In five days, I've been asked only once if I liked Australia (the only acceptable answer was always an enthusiastic, unqualified "yes"). Now they know that they've got a terrific country, and they don't require your approval, thank you very much."

If I've found anything in my research of the nation, it's that the modern Australian character is easygoing, communal, not spectacularly ambitious, somewhat mischievous, and always boisterous. It is generally assumed that the only other peoples in the world which are, on average, as rowdy as Australians would be we the people of the United States of 'Merrca.

And say what you will about the United States, there is an unspoken custom in nations across the world (except those who wish us to burn in Hell); if an American is present, they are usually the coolest person in the room. Apparently this same custom applies to the Peoples of the Southern Lands; I can only imagine what how a group of Germans would react if an American and an Australian were in their midst.

I would love to conspire with an Australian to freak out some squares.

So, I find myself writing my book at double my normal pace, just so I can make enough money to go to Australia. I figure if I sell a thousand copies at ten bucks a pop (even if I have to publish it myself), that's plenty of cash to live on for a few months AND take a two-week excursion to the Commonwealth.

I have a feeling I'd like it. In America, a kid who writes to live (in lieu of having a "real" job) is seen as a bit of a loser (especially if he isn't carving out a path paved in millions of dollars).

Yet in Australia, the government will pay you to write a book. And, if nobody reads it, at least you'll be in a place where people's biggest passions lie in whatever they do when they aren't working.

But if that doesn't appeal to you, Sarah Blasko lives there...


Advance Australia, mates. I'm on my way.