Other People's Shoes

Many times I find it tedious to share time with people. It's not because I don't like them (well, maybe sometimes it is), it's because we are different in some way that I might find less than comfortable. Sometimes that gap of differences is more like a chasm. The odd thing is, as painful as it may be at the time, that's what makes our interaction--however brief--actually worthwhile afterward. They have different traits, stories, and perspectives that make me glad I shared social space with them. Though these kinds of social experiences many times leave me drained, they also leave me with new fuel for thought. It's as if I'm wearing someone else's shoes for a short time, however uncomfortable or painful they may be. I notice the unfamiliarity, the lack of comfort, and the different "me" they project, but so do others--the people from the group that wears those shoes. They notice me and talk to me. We share stories and experiences. For a brief time we are the same. When I finally tear myself away, drained, my first thought is relief.

Then I think about our interaction, and how much of it I took with me when I left.

The Aimless Fisherman

(a bit inspired by a previous blog post)
 
When I was on a road trip vacation in 2015 I found myself sitting in a small bar in Ennis, Montana. I had walked up the street from the little motel cabin I was staying in for the night in search of a beer, something to eat, and maybe a little social interaction. I had been sitting there for a little while when a very cute, cowboy hat-wearing lady about 20 years my junior sat down on the bar stool next to me. We talked about this and that, and after about a half hour of interesting and flirty conversation she floored me with a question I wasn't prepared for. Or maybe it was the direct delivery I didn't see coming.

"Did you ever meet someone and just want to fuck her?"

I almost did the classic "drink spew," and after trying to gather my chin off the floor, gave her a long, drawn-out beer-laced answer that was apparently not what she wanted to hear. What she probably wanted to hear was something like, "You mean like I do right now?" Anyway, after a few minutes more of talking between us, she turned her attention to another nearby patron and I was brushed aside. Whew. I dodged a bullet.Wait--What? "Dodged a bullet?!" Why would I think that way? Why didn't I want sex? Because I was on the road? No, that's probably the most perfect scenario for cheap sex you can possibly imagine. You both know you will never see each other again afterward. It's perfect. So again--why would I think that way? Because it's just not my style, that's why. It's not me. Guys are always stereotyped as the wham-bam, immediate gratification gender. Does that mean I'm broken if I don't express the same shallow, animal desire that guys are supposed to feel when they see an attractive woman? To clarify, I do feel the animal desire and attraction, but I think it's the shallow part that I have trouble with. I am also not a "take charge" type of person.

I know I'm broken to a certain extent. I've mentioned previously how unique my family was growing up, with neither of my parents having siblings. That is likely why I grew up missing out on what might be considered normal interaction between the sexes. There wasn't any open embracing, kissing, or loving touch between my parents. I'm sure they did (after all--they had five kids!), but we were apparently shielded from seeing it. That probably should not have happened. I think people should be immersed in love, surrounded by love, and taught how to express and share their feelings, not hide them. They should learn how to communicate, whether good or bad. I never really learned that. I have finally figured out that I just don't coexist with others very well. I'm best at being solitary. I seem to have a strong desire to be selfish with my time and be able to switch gears instantly when something is not going the way I want it to go. Also, because I have a strong--almost overwhelming sometimes--desire to avoid confrontation I tend to avoid getting myself into situations that create mental stress. I am too thoughtful and sensitive to deal with it well.

I have love inside me that it sometimes just screams to escape. I like to snuggle, I like to hug, and I like to intertwine bodies. I'm a very flirty person, but my flirting is generally without any plan or direction of any kind. Part of me means for it to be superficial, but another part of me hopes that someone I'm flirting with calls me on it and takes matters into her own hands. It's probably like going fishing without a hook on your line because you don't want to be faced with what to do with one if you do catch it.

I used to think sex was the goal. That's what we boys always joked and boasted about while growing up. The one-dimensional immediate gratification of sex. Honestly, I don't know if I have never met someone that filled me with the simple, animal desire to fuck her. To me that just seems cheap. What I do feel is the desire to be enveloped by her embrace. I want to both hug and be hugged. I want to touch her as I would wish to be touched myself. I want to undress her, run my hands over every inch of her body. I want to massage her, to celebrate her, to share her thoughts and feelings. But cheap sex doesn't work well with me. I think I'm afraid of too many things. Maybe I worry about performance or technique, or what happens after. That's it: The after. Do I want an "after?" Should there even be an "after?" What if only one of us wants an "after?" I guess besides the potential for failure, awkwardness, and embarrassment, sex also has a sense of finality for me. When it's over it usually feels over.

I hope the girl with the cowboy hat got what she was after that evening. Me? I guess I'm just an aimless fisherman who fishes without a hook.

My Own Enigma

I will never figure me out. Or maybe I have figured me out but I've shrugged my shoulders in resignation.

I am aimless. In life, in love, and in so many other things. I have found myself in or near so many important decisions in my life and have failed to close the deal. I just can't seem to do it. Closing the deal is a sales term, but it applies to many things that have happened to me over the years. Things that, had they gone a different way, would have altered my life or changed my destiny. Had I just been able to “man up” and speak my mind or state my desire at the crucial moment my life would likely be immeasurably different.

The classic, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” question for example. I'm 59 and I still can't answer it. Why? Because I'm aimless. I don't really have a direction. I'm not “goal oriented” like successful people are. My mantra is more like, “Whatever.”

Am I happy? I am happier than I have been in the last few years, but that is just a comparison. Am I happy? I am content. My life has an orderly predictability that fares well with a worrywart person like myself. But am I happy? I doubt it. I think I am happy, but if I have to keep asking myself if I am, am I really? Will I ever be?

I am restless but I don't want to do anything. I want to be with a woman that I can shower with love and affection, but yet–I want to be alone. I want to share things with others, but I want to be selfish too. I'm a bag of oppositions that seem to hold themselves together.

I feel like I am my own enigma.

Admiration

People I admire are unafraid. They proudly wear unnaturally-colored hair, have tattoos, and let their imaginations run wild. They are positive, unpredictable, and they recycle because they want to. They are equally at home in the city or the country. They know what's going on behind my eyes, know what to say at the right time, and can make me laugh when I need it. They love music, and might play piano, a cello, or an acoustic guitar. They appreciate simplicity and shun the "new and improved." They may not have one of their own, but they love animals. They have many stories to tell, and they know when to tell them and when not to. They are social, and yet they appreciate solitude. They are happy with themselves and won't ridicule someone else.

This is just a list I started jotting down one time for fun. Some of these are traits I possess, and others are not. Many times I find myself oddly jealous of other people that have different personalities than I do, then tell myself I have talents they do not have, know things they do not know, carry memories they have not shared, and have had a lifetime of different experiences than the ones they have had. I may not actually admire the person, but maybe I admire something they are able to do, or something they've accomplished.

Maybe they actually admire something about me.

The Old Man

It was a warm summer afternoon and the park was alive with activity. Children ran and played, their shrieks and laughter piercing the lazy afternoon. Their energy seemed almost alien to the unmoving adults that sat nearby with their solemn expressions and watchful eyes. As they watched the young versions of themselves, they tried to remember a time when they were the ones doing the running and shrieking. They sighed as they gazed.

Nobody paid any attention to the old gentleman as he strolled into the park. He carried a tattered violin case with bits of aged, yellowish leather showing plainly through wounds in its black outer coating. He was dressed plainly but was well groomed--his thin, frosty hair long but well kept. He looked like any other elderly park visitor, a person unconcerned with the passage of time. Had anyone been close enough to him they might have seen the mischievous glint in his watery, pale-blue eyes as they surveyed the setting. Seating himself carefully on a large rock near the edge of the manicured park lawn, he placed the violin case on the ground at his feet. Each of the latches made a soft clack as he flipped them open, and he lifted the lid of the old case and let it fall backward onto the warm grass. He slowly straightened back up, and with great deliberation and care, he removed his light gray jacket and folded it, placing it on the lid of the open case before him. Then he gingerly lifted a gleaming violin and placed it beneath his chin. Smiling to himself, he closed his eyes and gently drew the bow across the strings.

No sound came from the violin.

At that instant, every child in the park looked toward him, smiled almost imperceptibly, and went quickly back to what they were doing.

They instantly knew who he was and why he was there. They had never seen the old man before but they felt they had always known him. Though there was no sound, the children knew what came from his violin. It was not sound that an ear could perceive, but it was music. It was the music they experienced every summer day. It was the music of childhood, of summer. It was youth.

All of the adults were momentarily confused. They had no explanation for the strangeness that suddenly washed over them. They all paused and stared blankly in front of them as they tried to understand what was happening.

There was a feeling they couldn’t explain, a glowing warmth that filled their minds. They felt a pleasure--a sort of vertigo. It was a familiar feeling, but distant at the same time. Then they began to remember. The feelings of past memories began to return.

They remembered the smell of the golden, dry grasses of a summer field, and the feeling of dirty, bare feet running on a hard-packed path. They remembered screaming with delight as the cold water of the lawn sprinkler knocked the air from their lungs.

They remembered.

They remembered lazing under a tree and analyzing every fluffy cloud in the bright blue summer sky. They again heard the songs of the Popsicle man as he turned down their street, prompting them to scream "Mom! Ice cream!" and go running into the house, hoping for a dollar. They remembered the juice exploding from their mouth and running down their chin as they bit into the most perfect slice of cool watermelon in the world.

They smiled through closed eyes as they remembered.

They went whirling back to the dusty smell of a summer rain as they rode their bicycles as fast as they could pedal before the impending storm threatened to drench them. They remembered braiding their best friend's hair as they draped across the porch swing, each giggling while they shared something the boy across the street had said. They remembered lying on their stomach, inches from a beetle, gently prodding it and analyzing every detail about it as it tried to slink away.

Yes, they remembered.

The blast of noise when they poked their head out the open car window from the back seat--laughing as the wind blew through their hair, the time spent searching for the perfect shaped rock that would skip all the way across the river, that apple pie that grandma made!

They remembered it all.

They all smiled, eyes closed, as it all flooded their minds like a desert cloudburst filling a dry stream bed. They danced in their daydreams as the childhood experiences of summers burst to the surface from the dark depths of their memory. They found themselves again swirling with the giddy, carefree happiness of youth.

The old man opened his eyes, and smiling to himself, he slowed the bow and brought it to a stop. The magical song of youth slowly faded from their minds, its dying notes blending imperceptibly with those of the children playing nearby. The adults, no longer held by the spell of the violin, slowly woke from their youthful dreams. Momentarily disappointed, smiles slowly returned to their faces as they remembered what had been awakened by the magic. Bending down, they removed their shoes and socks, and let their toes feel the tickle of the sun-warmed grass. They smiled at the sensations as if they had suddenly found a long-forgotten room in their mind, a distant book that had been left behind and covered with dust and cobwebs. They reveled in the rediscovered feelings that washed over them. Standing up one by one, they began to move toward their children. Smiles growing, they walked more quickly, and broke into a run. They laughed and cried as they joined the youngsters at play. They played as children would play, their shrieks of joys mixing with those of their children.

The old man slowly placed his violin and bow back into the tattered case and put his jacket back on. He closed the lid, and grasping the handle, slowly stood up and watched the activity for a few seconds. Smiling, he turned and slowly shuffled back the way he had come.

The children all glanced at him briefly, thanking him silently for what he had done, and they turned their attention back to their new playmates. They hoped he would return some day when they were older--when they needed him.

When they needed to remember.

Hair Today...

I'm 59 years old and I've had short hair all my life.

When I was a wee little bastard my hair was kept short because it was the easiest way to maintain it. Because mom cut our hair, short hair was the obvious choice. After all, buzzing a kid's hair into a blond toothbrush was not rocket science.

In the late sixties and early seventies I wanted long hair so badly. I wanted to belong to the counter-culture that was booming at the time. I remember one time leaving Massey's, our local grocery store with my family, and out front, talking with someone was a guy that had hair that was easily mid-way down his back.

  "Ha, would you want hair like that?" my dad asked with disdain, obviously meaning to ridicule the man to me.

  "No," I answered simply. I was too chickenshit to say any different. I knew what he expected to hear. Inside, however, it was anything but the right answer. I wanted that hair. I wanted to be that guy. Badly. I wanted to have hair that spoke out and said, "Fuck you people! See this? I'm not afraid to be different!"

Not long after that, in an effort to escape my family and strike out on my own, I joined the Air Force. When that happened, my hair was cut even shorter. I couldn't win. Six years later I was discharged, and wouldn't you know it--long hair was no longer in style.

I felt like I missed the whole damn thing.

Daring to be different, I grew my hair out anyway. It got fairly long, but because my hair is not very straight, it didn't hang down and behave. I didn't consider how it looked really--I just wanted to grow my hair long. That all changed one day when I saw a reflection of myself in the window of the car dealership I worked at. What I saw on top of my head looked like a shorter version of Roseanne Roseannadanna's hair. I was mortified. I was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I looked completely stupid. That sudden realization was likely made worse by the worn out Mickey Mouse baseball cap I was wearing at the time to keep it under control. Anyway, I was struck with a kind of confusion--like I didn't even really know who I was or where I was going.

I turned conformist.

Years went by. I got regular haircuts like people do, annoyed that I had to pay money for something I didn't want in the first place. I treated haircuts like a necessary evil. When I got married to my second wife I was ecstatic to learn that she knew how to cut hair. Now I didn't have to pay for haircuts! I didn't have to even get dressed for one!

When we divorced last summer I began to rethink things. I realized that during that marriage my hair had, slowly but surely, become shorter--almost to the point it was during my childhood. When that realization hit me, I started doing things differently. I am becoming reacquainted with my hair. It's very gray these days, but I still have all of it. Now I celebrate my hair and treat it with some respect. (I have learned the value of conditioner!) Even in a car with air conditioning I have always preferred to drive with the windows down, and now my hair blows around when I do so.

Better late than never.

The Romance in my Mind!

When I hear those things that trigger the emotion, the daydreams, the relaxed, drifting mind and the far-off eyes... Something has stuck a chord. It doesn't have to be anything really--it can be a scent, a sound, the lick of a blues guitar, a spoken word, or the sublime flavor of a special food. Something might stir inside me.

I'll sometimes drift far enough away from reality that I'm disappointed when I return.

It might be the most ordinary of moments--just listening to the TV in the back of my mind while I'm looking through a color newsprint circular that I found lying, forlorn, in my driveway. I might be idly staring out the window at the sky as it slowly fades from view with a splash of evening color.

I don't always know when I'm in the throes of a romance moment, and I'll bet I sometimes sit with a grin on my face as the sights, smells, and feelings wash over me.

I seldom ignore my inner voice when there is an opportunity to better the moment. I may satiate myself with a food that sounds good when I know it's not good for me, but I try not to make it a habit. I drink quite a bit, but I don't drink to be wasted--I want only a buzz. I smoke a little weed too, but I'm not running from life--I'm trying to underline it and italicize it. I don't like to lose control, but I do want to let my mind wander with a little more fluidity. Everybody has a different definition of what it means to live. While some people may consider gravity-defying adrenaline sports to be the only way to truly experience life, others my consider living to be the pursuit of feeding their mind with reading and thinking. Like Grace Slick said in the 60's anthem, White Rabbit, "feed your head." Think about things. Ponder things. Romance things.

I can't help but always notice when something sounds better than the status quo. The sudden realization that something might be an improvement sets my mind reeling with anticipation. When I first had the notion to buy an electric blanket, the romance I had for the idea was food for thought. I kept thinking of how nice and cozy it would be if I had one. That romance was exceeded only by the feeling I actually had when I eventually slid my bare skin beneath it on a chilly evening. Things that are so simple, and yet--present such a delicious leap in sensory input! I relish them.

I watch a movie that I've seen before and I find myself overcome with emotion at certain scenes. Why? Because my mind played the scene over in my mind before it unfolded, that's why. I knew it was coming. Having seen the movie before, my mind romanced my favorite scenes. It amplified them. It had my emotions on the "edge of their seat" with anticipation.

I see a vacation destination, a superhero, a picture of a man on a motorcycle--it doesn't matter--my wandering mind might sail off in the direction of a daydream.

Sometimes I do live the dream, but more often than not I only romance it. Does that frustrate me? No. I find myself saying, "thank you for that moment" when I have a good mental recess--thanking it for the brief reprieve from reality. Thanking it for letting me relax my thoughts and let my stress taper off. A deep sigh of appreciation, a glint of faraway eyes, and a faint smile.

The smile of romance.

Artsy Movie

While I have always been an huge lover of movies, I find myself lately choosing and watching them with a different attitude than I used to have.  Instead of choosing a movie based on preconceived notions of what I was expecting to see or happen in it (like choosing a movie because I know it has action or naked women in it), I find myself choosing or watching them with more of an open mind, examining them.  I find myself looking at them from an art perspective.  I think I'm analyzing them on the fly, and noting nuances that I find appealing.  I end up falling in love with a particular scene, perfect music choice, creative camera angle, unusual story line, or any number of things that may stand out while I'm watching it. I also am becoming more emotional during movies.

Recently, I watched Bagdad Cafe.  I have seen it once before but only recently acquired it for myself.  The movie was put together with a high degree of art-inspired cinematography.  It is full of great camera angles, and lots of scenes that were shot purposefully over-saturated for a particular feeling.  What tied the whole movie together for me was the song that played throughout the movie: I'm Calling You, by Jevetta Steele.  The feel of the song was perfect for the movie.  You can picture the dusty motel/cafe out in the middle of the desert while you're listening to the song.  It just oozes loneliness.

Throughout the movie there is a boy that is constantly playing Bach on a piano.  He plays it in a particularly dry, monotonous manner--like someone that is practicing their scales over and over.  In one scene, Jasmin, the main character enters the diner, and the boy stops playing--remembering his mother always telling him to stop playing when a guest comes into the diner.  The woman tells him to please keep playing.  The boy smiles slowly and begins playing, and she sits nearby him with her eyes closed.  The transformation of the music in that scene is almost spiritual.  It completely changes into something that is melodic and beautiful, and makes another truly great scene.

This is a movie that people will either love or hate.  It has enough oddball stuff in it that it will have the superficial, action movie lovers wondering,  "What the hell kind of movie is this?"  I can't say I love every scene in the movie either.  What I can say is I love the movie overall. 

Divorced Again

My recent lifestyle change has been a pleasant one. Even though I have been on my own several times in the past, over time I had forgotten how much I enjoy the quiet times and predictability of being alone. I knew I missed it, but I didn't know how much. Where most people tend to be bored out of their skull, I find myself being very relaxed, thoughtful, and enjoying the time to reflect. I also find myself generally sleeping better (and without ear plugs).  My new home is clothing optional, and thanks to the stellar weather we've had this summer since I've moved, it has been very optional--as in hardly ever. I find myself almost in a hurry to get home these days. While I have always been in a little bit of a hurry to get home, it was just so I could take my shoes off and have a beer. Now, it's different. I am hurrying home to my place. I can unwind. I can think.
Maybe it's partly because Edgewood, my new home, is almost a sort of rural oasis.  It's surrounded on all sides by the hustle and bustle of traffic gridlock and human over-activity only a few miles away, but here it is very relaxed and quiet.  There are large fields of grass, barns, pastures, and all sorts wide open spaces.  There are very few apartment buildings here. I wake to the sounds of chickens, which I find strangely refreshing. Back behind my place there appears to be a menagerie of Alpacas, geese, and chickens. The geese occasionally emit their 'squonk' but other than that all I ever hear are the chickens. I love being able to slide a morning window open and hear chickens clucking or the occasional rooster crow, and none of them are close enough to bother me.  Oddly enough, there seem to be no outdoor dogs anywhere around. Maybe people don't feel the need to have canine security devices here like they do in other places.

Things are peaceful.  Things are predictable.

Smiling to Myself

I have had so many moments of contemplation since I have been back on my own that I can't even recall the number.  You know the moments: the times when the temperature is just right, the breeze is just right, the sounds are just right, a feeling is just right, or any other perfect moment presents itself and is noticed.  At first I thought maybe that was it--I was just noticing them.  After all, with only me here my new house is quiet.  In addition to the quiet in the house, there is quiet outside the house.  I would find myself noticing it and drinking it all in.  I would smile to myself.

Standing naked at the open, chest-high bedroom window moments before getting into bed, I would lean on the windowsill, looking out at the sky.  I'd find myself inhaling deeply as I stood, letting my eyes close slightly as I tasted the summer evening air with my hungry nostrils.  When I opened my eyes, the the clouds--lit by the waning sun--seem to invite me to watch.  "Don't close your window yet!" they seem to say.  I watched them, marveling at the various shades of pale pink, peach yellow, and purple-blue as if it were my private show.  At that moment it was if time was frozen.  I would smile to myself, wanting the moment to go on forever.  When I would finally relent, telling myself I have to go to bed, I didn't want to close the window or the blinds right away.  I would lay on top of my bed, eyes closed, listening, smelling, and reliving the almost spiritual experience I had at the window moments before.  I would fall asleep almost instantly, and yes--I would be smiling to myself.  Sure, I would awaken a little later and close the window and blinds, but that didn't matter.  I had my moment of appreciation.

Lying out in the back yard in the glaring hot sun, I would be in the same state.  Taking deep, slow breaths it was if I was breathing for the first time, and I was reveling in the feeling of the sun baking my skin, my vision blood-red from the sun glaring on my closed eyelids.  The sounds of chickens a short distance away, clucking as they searched for food was punctuated with an occasional rooster crow or squawk from a goose.  The sound of a plane would catch my attention and I'd listen to it, mentally tracking with my eyes closed as it went across the sky.  Suddenly, a breeze would come up, cooling me with a welcome relief and making the trees come alive with a whoosh of fluttering leaves.  I smiled to myself.  I think if anyone were to see me at that moment they would see the smile slowly spread across my face as if I had just recalled a pleasant memory.

Recently, the rain came.  After two months of nary a sprinkle, thunderstorms arrived.  For those of you that don't live here, we are seldom blessed with thunder and lightning.  The shelter of mountains on both sides of us usually prevent us from any of nature's light shows.  When the skies darkened with thick clouds and the slow rumble spread across the land that afternoon, I smiled to myself.  As I sat in my living room that day, I heard a soft ping.  Then another.  And another.  Then it occurred to me I was hearing the slow build of a summer rain, and the pinging sound was the heavy drops as they hit the metal chimney top--the sound coming down through the fireplace.  I stopped what I was doing and listened to the music.  The pinging from the chimney, the soft patter of the building rain hitting the canvas gazebo roof on the patio, punctuated with the occasional bass rumble of thunder.  And yet--it was still warm enough to have all the windows open.  It was perfect.  I smiled to myself.  When I went to bed that night it was raining heavily, and I stood at the window as I always do--breathing deep, listening, and feeling the cool breezes that came with the rain.  When I lay down on top of my bed and closed my eyes, the sounds that came with the rain were pleasant to fall asleep to.  There was no abundance of roof noise, downspout noise, or any other noise associated with the rain.  It was music.

I smiled to myself.

Chronicling Life

I wonder how many other people "go all philosophical" as they get older. How many people become aware of the things they did or didn't do during the course of their lives?  How many people remember things they are sorry they got mixed up in or sorry they missed out on? I would guess that it doesn't happen to as many as it should. If so, it's probably fleeting. They may be better for absence of it--who knows?

Not everyone has the level of introspection that I have, which is good. If everyone was over-thinking shit all the time nothing would ever get done. I like to think that my level of thought (call it analyzing, worrying, pondering, or whatever) is good for my life. I like to think that the fact that I do mull things over creates a more positive place for me and those around me. How? By the fact that I'm always carefully considering things before doing them or saying them. Ramifications, perceived reactions, fairness, honesty--all sorts of things go through my mind when I'm making choices. I try to think before I act. It drives me crazy sometimes. I know it drives other people crazy as well. My level of impulsiveness is sometimes so low I wonder if it can be measured. Cursed with thought? Hobbled by an overactive mind?

I have had many, many regrets in my life, and one of them is that I never kept a journal of any kind when I was younger. I would dearly love to be able to read what was going through my mind at various points in my life. Imagine being able to go to the "table of contents" of your life, select a time period, and zip right to it. It could be something as mundane as what I ate for lunch or what kind of weather we had that day, but it could have also given me some insight as to how I responded mentally or physically to something that happened to me during a particular day. Fell down and skinned my knee riding a bicycle? Angry at having to write "I will not..." a thousand times because someone did something to punish the whole class? Sick and home from school? Scared and alone in a strange place? All of these things I remember tidbits of, but it would be so interesting to be able to get a feel for how they affected me at that time. Hell, maybe it would scare the hell out of me to be suddenly looking though my eyes during a traumatic moment.  I didn't know I would like to write about things as I got older and more thoughtful. Had I known or aspired to it, I would have kept journals. I would have taken more writing and English classes. I would have focused my energies instead of just squandering life and living like a selfish, part-time hedonist.

Or would I?

Creative Arts Trifecta

As one of the early computer users, I have been surfing the internet since it's very beginning.  I have watched its evolution.  I have watched it blossom and grow, and have watched it morph over and over--as if each time it was trying to find a foothold or a reason for its existence.  It has grown from a simple place where businesses would pay some tech-savvy person to put up websites that were little more than a picture or two and contact information.  Personal sites were mainly available to only the nerds of the time, and represented things like clubs, associations, and hobbyists.  The internet--in its infancy--was made up of very few fonts or colors.  It was very boring.  We were limited by the web browser software, the internet connection speeds, and the computer hardware itself.  But we didn't know we were hobbled because at that time it was brand new in every way.

When the Google era came into existence, it was an "awakening" of sorts.  Suddenly, there were free platforms at our disposal--things that the common man could use freely without much difficulty. Some people (such as myself) placed themselves out there for the world to see in the form of blogs.  Many of us were probably not really sure why we did it.  I know I really didn't.  I guess we did it because we could.  We were looking for something. We didn't know what.  It was a new, exciting place and people were the new explorers.

The internet has become a potentially dangerous place.  In the blink of an eye the unwary traveler can find him or herself in a dark alley filled with badness that can steal your identity, infect your computer, or bombard you with undesirable email.  The wonder of the internet is gone.  Seldom am I ever surprised or pleased by what I find on the internet.  It has become a ubiquitous resource and a tool.  It has become a place where too much information is shared, and and a place where we know too much about each other.  In the beginning of the internet there was no interaction.  Now there is too much interaction.  It has lost its original luster.  We have become shallow people living for the moment.  We have lost our depth.  We have lost our culture.

Or so I thought.  It's refreshing to find that in the right hands, the internet can also a wonderful place.

As I've aged I've become more of a lover of the arts.  Whether it's traditional art like painting, drawing, or sculpting, or something like movies, books, music, or anything else that falls into the creative arts, I love them all.  Recent history has led me down multiple paths that all converged in one place:

The Creative Arts Trifecta.

Like any Trifecta, it's made up of three parts.  In my case, it's music, literature, and visual arts.

Music:  Radio Paradise.  Since I first discovered this online radio station several years ago, it has always been near and dear to me.  It is playing almost constantly when I'm home.  It gets substantially more play time than my TV does.  What makes them so good?  The same thing that makes all the winners of my Trifecta shine: they go above and beyond just being "good enough."  They don't just slap music onto an online play list and let it run, they take pains to put songs together that flow nearly seamlessly from one to another.  Sometimes it's the sound, tempo, or instrument and that provide the link between the songs, and other times it may be the song meaning or the vocal style.  It's not possible to please everyone 100% of the time when it comes to music, but when they hit their groove on a relaxing evening there's nothing finer than that moment.  What's more, they do it all with no commercials.  It's not unusual to hear something unique, something new, or something rare when you're listening.

Literature:  Brain Pickings.  This is a relatively new find to me.  I'm constantly amazed at the things that are carefully researched and posted by Maria Popova, the person behind this great site.  Her love for books becomes apparent when you read what she has assembled every week.  It's comprised of book content, illustrations (she loves the artwork as much as I do!), and stories about the authors themselves.  I have been inspired to find many of the books she has featured on there and have not been disappointed.  My favorites have been books about writing, written by the writers themselves.  Very interesting stuff.  I recommend you sign up for her newsletter.  If you do you'll get a very interesting compilation that she personally created, delivered to your email inbox every Sunday morning at 8am.  Well, it's 8am Pacific anyway...  While it's a free site, I can easily see myself becoming a subscriber very soon.  As I said, her love for books shines in her work.

Visual Arts:  Colossal.  This is the newest find of my Trifecta.  It never ceases to amaze me.  It might be the work of a unique artist, amazing photography, street art, unusual products, or anything visually pleasing or striking in some way.  All of the things on the site are presented in great detail--at the very least with great pictures, but many times with moving GIF files or movies (don't miss the movies!) as well.  When you spend some time on this site it shows you just how creative humans can be.  The talents and the ideas that come from people is sometimes nothing short of amazing.

Turn off your Facebook, turn on Radio Paradise, close your eyes, and get lost.  Think about things.  When you feel like opening your eyes, visit Colossal.  When your mind has been juiced with inspiring art, slow it down with a visit to Brain Pickings and get lost all over again.

You won't be sorry.

My Mind's Room

I wish I could see darkness in the distant corners. Truth is, I'd be happy just to be able to make out the walls.

When I sit and stare out the window as I often do, my mind starts wandering. I find myself formulating analogies, making comparisons, coming up with descriptions, and all kinds other ways of explaining my shortcomings and idiosyncrasies. I am my own psychologist. One of things I have come to grips with is the fact that I have a bad memory. I would so dearly love to write about my entire childhood and be able to recollect every nit-picking detail about it! But can anybody really? Sometimes I'm under the impression that people can because I read things that they have written that can only be explained by an above-average memory.  Well, either that or they are just good a spinnin' a yarn. What if, even though it appears to be a complete memory to me (the reader), the person that wrote it is feeling the same sense of incompleteness and frustration that I feel? But as the reader I would never know that would I?  After all, how can you feel badly about missing out on a particular item at a yard sale if you never knew that item was there in the first place?

It frustrates me because I feel the desire to get my words down, but I just can't remember quite enough detail.  I can't quite recollect enough about the particular slice of my life that's on my mind to be able to tell how much of it's fact and how much is fiction. I just can't remember it. Why wasn't I paying more attention?  Why didn't I take notes?  Why didn't I keep a journal?  I know why:  Neither of my parents were literary people.  I had no role model.

I sometimes feel like my mind is a dark, dusty, cavernous room with one naked, cobweb-draped light bulb hanging in the middle of it. There is an old piece of string hanging from the pull chain, but I can't find it until I wave my arms blindly around me and I feel it brush my hand. With a slow tug on the string, the long, mechanical 'click' sends yellow light from the naked filament almost reluctantly, as if I've bothered it somehow by awakening it from its slumber. I look around the room, but it doesn't illuminate much. I can dimly see a few artifacts of my life scattered about--each one dragging a dull bit of a distant memory into the light where I can see it better.  I can't see all the corners of my mind's room. I can make out a wall here and a wall there, but I can't even make out how big the room really is. I can't see everything in it. I'm afraid to leave the safety of the dull, yellow light--knowing that if I shuffle away from it my body will block what little light there is and keep me from seeing anything in that direction. I take cautious steps away from it, craning my eyes, trying--hoping--to see more. I want to see everything.

But it's no use. The light bulb is dim. It won't show me the reaches of my memory. I can't see enough to know if I've seen all there is to see in that direction. I would be happy to be able to see more experiences in the distance or be able to see farther than I can see. I would love to be able to see all the walls.

I tell myself: "It's no use. You will never see the corners. The light bulb in your mind is not replaceable with a brighter one. The best you can hope for is to clean some of the dust off of it and make it brighter. Or, maybe if you stand long enough you will accustom yourself to the dimness and be able to see a little farther." No--it's no use--the details just aren't there.

I'll just continue to feel my way along the floor of my mind, purposefully shuffling so I don't inadvertently step on anything of importance, collecting things I find as I go.

At least my mind's room is not completely empty.

Me and Movies

When I watch a movie I focus on it. When the lights go down and I hit the "play" button, the isolation panels go up. I don't want interruptions of any kind. If the doorbell rings I will probably reluctantly answer it, but that's only because I know whoever out there can hear my movie and knows I'm home.  If the phone rings, however, it's another matter entirely. When I was married I would usually answer the phone because I would be expected to, but inside I would have annoyance or anger. "Who the hell is bothering me with a stupid phone call? Can't they see I'm in the middle of a movie?" Of course they can't.  That wouldn't stop me from clenching my teeth about it when it would happen.  During my single years I hardly ever answer the phone when it rings during a movie. For these reasons, really prefer watching a movie in a theater. In that setting, you're forced to turn off all interruptions like phones before the movie starts. That's the way movies should be watched.

I like lots of different kinds of movies. Although I do like your typical "guy" movies, I also like deep, emotional movies. Actually, they tend to be the ones that I dread interruptions the most while they are playing because the movie will have me by my interest and my emotions. I may be into the movie on a much deeper level than usual, which is already considerably captivated. I like many, many types of movies. My taste in them runs quite the range. I think my favorites are the "surprise hits" I never heard about. The ones I had no idea of how good they might be or sometimes not even knowing a lot of what they were about. I like the ones that get me misty-eyed from feeling, the ones that make my palms sweat from drama, and the ones that make my heart race from action. Movies I don't like? I don't like to see gore. I also don't like movies that are too centered on one character or scene, like those that could easily be performed as a play on stage. I don't like bad acting. There are too many really, really good actors out there--many who have yet to be discovered even--for a director to subject their audiences to substandard performances from people that should never have gotten the job. There are famous actors that I can't stand, and unknown actors that I've watched and loved. There are actors that used to be good but should have retired at the top of their game, and actors that have steadily gotten better with each role they have undertaken.

To me, movies are an escape and an artful expression. They are a chance to witness a story told and expressed the way someone else perceived it. Movies are especially riveting to people that don't have very good imaginations. Yes, like me. Although well-written books are the best way to make the imagination run wild, movies are great for one reason: They are a crash course of storytelling. They are a full-throttle, nonstop conglomeration of sensory input that crams an epic story into your mind, complete with sights, smells, and emotions. I like old movies and new movies, simple and complex, amazing and ordinary, laughing or crying. They are an art form that I can escape into for a couple of hours. I treasure those hours.

Secrets and Being Sneaky

To quote Nobel prize-winning author, Gabriel García Márquez:

"All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret."

Being sneaky and secretive is something that seems like it has always been a part of me. It may have been me just learning to get away with things. I remember constantly being harped on by my dad, as he'd hurl things like, "watch what you're doing!" or "pay attention!" or other "get yer head outta yer ass" type comments. Through those admonishments and my desire to avoid getting into a situation that would bring trouble, I learned what to do or not to do to stay in the clear. I learned I could mess with practically anything I wasn't supposed to mess with if I did it right. All I had to do was note exactly how things were placed, how they were stacked, direction they were facing, and all those sorts of things before I got into something I wasn't supposed to be getting into.

I also got good at being quiet. Stealthy might be a better description.  When you live in an older house, there are squeaks and noises that the house makes as you interact with it.  I learned things like, turning a particular doorknob made a squeak if you turned it the usual direction, but was totally quiet if you turned it the other way instead.  I learned to navigate the entire house avoiding floor squeaks.  It's not that I was trying to get away with anything (well okay--I'm sure I was occasionally up to no good), it was mostly just my way of celebrating the solitude of an empty house by not adding a single sound to it.  I'm the same way outside.  When I'm walking alone, I don't whistle, shuffle, or anything like that.  I tread lightly.  I don't try to be quiet--I just am.  I just feel I have to be.  When I'm alone in the woods, such as in the special place I like to go in the summer to be without clothes, I walk carefully, choosing to avoid making any sounds.  It just seems wrong to make a sound in those kind of conditions--almost sacrilegious. I walk like I'm stalking prey.

As I grew a little older, siblings became more intrusive into my privacy. Everyone knows the firstborn child doesn't have to learn sharing until their first brother or sister comes along, then their world suddenly has new rules. Confusing rules. They also struggle with the fact that they are no longer the center of attention in their family.  That fact may have something to do with my comedic nature. I think I realized I had to earn the attention instead of it just automatically being there like it always had been previously. I don't know how I was at sharing. I'm sure I had some trouble with it. Most kids do. Anyway, as I got older I started to value my space. I had places and things that were mine and mine alone, and I made sure it was understood. I remember having a box of "treasures" that I kept a watchful eye on. There was nothing in it of any value. It was just mine. My hallowed ground. My private things.

I began to appreciate quiet, private time away from the mainstream more and more as I got older. When I was a teen and had the usual problematic mix of raging hormones and anti-authority, I had a growing desire to strike out on my own. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to have my own place. A place that would be mine and mine alone. A place where I didn't have to be sneaky to be private. A place where I could do anything I wanted to, any time I wanted to, and would never have to worry about having to explain my actions or whereabouts to anyone. I wanted freedom.

Now I'm older, and I'm no less sneaky.  Actually, maybe even more so.  I have secret pictures, alternate email addresses, and private stories.  This blog itself is a prime example.  Very few people in my life know of its existence.  (Side note: Feel free to share this blog with friends or family if you ever find out that I have died for whatever reason.  These writings are just as important of a part of who I am as my public writings.)  It's not that I want to do anything to cause any harm--it's just a part of me that I need to have present inside.

It's my individuality.

Lone Survivor

As an avid reader and movie-watcher, some of my favorite tales are those that take place in a post-apocalyptic world. I have romanced the notion of my being one of the last people on earth many times. Although I know I'm carrying my love for solitude to the extreme, it seems to be an exciting combination of personal survival and abandoning societal rules and standards. Becoming nomadic out of necessity, moving through empty towns that were once bursting with human activity, gathering what I need to add to my hoard to ensure my survival. I think I would like the notion of being able to wear no clothing as I existed as a lonely wanderer.

There are plenty of flaws in such a dream, and I know that any world that rises up and casts mankind from its shadow would be no less hostile to me--it's lone survivor. Maybe even more so. Still, it's an interesting fantasy, albeit one of loneliness, hunger, danger, and fear. Maybe what I need is something in my life to just mix things up. A drastic change perhaps. Realistically, I think I would like to live somewhere in a desert situation, like southern Utah or northern Arizona for example. Off the grid so to speak.

To have myself be far enough from everywhere that I could escape the traps of man--the things that we have brought upon ourselves. We've painted ourselves into a corner we can't get out of. We've escalated our needs and wants to an unhealthy level. We are so busy just keeping upright on the treadmill we've created that we don't know how to get off. Everyone walks around with their face cast downward, eyes glued to their little electronic umbilical cord, not realizing that we've given our freedom away little by little. Incrementally, our love for all things electronic has placed us in a rut. We unknowingly embraced a digital world that is tailor-made for eavesdropping, information-gathering, and identity-stealing. One of these days the collective population will wonder how we could have let this happen. I know how it happened, it's simple: because it was fun. It was new and exciting. To be so plugged in to the rest of the world was amazing! Little by little we have gotten to the point that we are announcing every single thing we do all day long to the rest of the world. Yeah, it would be nice to unplug and regress back away from society and just spend my time unclothed and unencumbered.

The Passive Exhibitionist

During a recent bit of introspection and self-analysis, I coined a new term.  I am what I call a "passive exhibitionist."  I don't force myself on people, but I will place myself in hopes that someone notices me.  If it's a party or gathering of some kind I might be figuratively in the background during conversation, but I'll make a quip or answer a question that will steer the conversation.  The idea is to do something to put the focus will be on something involving me.  I will feign surprise or nonchalance, but unabashedly tell a tale, throwing my comedic slant on the delivery.  After the right amount of interaction, I will duck out or wander away at a point where the timing is appropriate.  It's a "don't overstay your welcome" kind of thing.  I don't want to dominate a conversation, but I do want to be the focus of it for a short time.

A few people that know me know me as a nudist at heart.  They know I would just as soon not be wearing clothes.  The truth is, my passive exhibitionist streak exists there too.  I will choose to be bare in a place where it's not completely out of the ordinary, but there still might be a very small chance of discovery--like my back yard for example.  When I'm lying in the sun I sometimes hope someone will stumble upon me.  There have been many times where I will leave my robe on the chair in the dining room when I'm going to go out to the garage for something and make the trek completely bare.  I know--based on the time of day, nobody being home, or whatever--that there is a chance I could be caught, but it's highly unlikely.  I might walk out to the wood pile behind the garage to get some wood, and purposely leave my robe loose in hopes it comes open on the way back when my hands are full.  Sure, I could be caught, but it would look innocent enough.

My writings follow a parallel.  I put secretive things about me on display.  I bare my soul to the world, knowing the chance of anyone really reading it are probably very slim.

The internet has enabled me.  I am able to hide behind the anonymity of my choosing if I so desire.  I can be anyone I want to be, and be as public or private as I want to be. I can post things like this blog to a place where I'm not covering up my identity, nor am I announcing it publicly.  There are also those times I have created a persona that was anonymous just so I could post things and live a little dangerously.  I had no particular plan or goal, I just wanted to put myself out there a little further than usual.  Every time I have ever done that--bar none--I have eventually deleted my account.  The thrill I initially had when I started had worn thin and was finally gone, and I no longer had that urge to be the passive exhibitionist.

Dancing in the Rain

A peculiar feeling came over me as I lay in bed this morning.

I wake easily, and I'm usually awake fairly early.  This morning was no exception.  I awoke somewhere around 4:30 or so, but being a weekend I didn't have to get up.  I tried a few various changes in the way I was laying to see if I could get back to sleep.  None worked.  As I lay there, my mind started waking up.  Thoughts started speeding up, and I started thinking about all kinds of things.  It was obvious I was not going to get back to sleep, so I pulled out my ear plugs and put them on the night stand.  I hate ear plugs, but wear them out of necessity.  I can go to sleep at night at the drop of a hat, but when I've been asleep for more than two hours I can wake at the slightest sound.  Wearing earplugs will keep me from waking up when my wife comes to bed, and also help if she gets into a particularly noisy bout of snoring.

Anyway, back to what I was talking about.

When I took my earplugs out, I was immediately in a different place.  Instead of the usual muted hissing from my tinnitus, I was hearing a quiet Sunday morning in a sleeping house, only this time I could hear the rain on the roof, and the water cascading down the downspout.  I sleep wearing nothing, and I enjoy it.  Probably because I was already naked, the thought of going outside in the rain with no clothes on crossed my mind.  That's all it took.  The more I thought about it the more I started thinking how fun it would be to go outside bare and enjoy the rain.  It was still dark, there was almost zero chance of anyone else catching me.  Besides, there was already a towel hanging outside near the hot tub.  Why not?

Suddenly motivated, I slid out of bed and put my robe on.  On the way through the house I turned the heat on, pushed the button on the already-loaded coffee pot, and went to the back door.  I put flip-flops on and stepped through the sliding glass door, closing it slowly.  I stood there under the eaves for a moment, enjoying the sound of raindrops falling around me.  It actually wasn't very cold at all.  I suddenly realized I had bypassed the bathroom in my hurry to experience this private moment.  Goaded into action by the need to pee, I took my robe off and carefully laid it over the firewood rack against the wall, and stepped out onto the deck and into the natural shower, enjoying the naturist feeling that was enveloping me.

The rain sounded harder than it felt, but it felt wonderful as it pelted my bare skin and started cascading down my body.  I leaned my head back, letting it kiss my face.  Cursing my glasses, I removed them so I would leave no place untouched by the rain.  I reached up and wiped the rain all over my face, smearing the cool water and refreshing me.  I put my glasses back on and stepped to the edge of the deck.  Then I remembered the motion light on the garage.  Damn that light!  I have been surprised by that garish light before and was glad I remembered it before it came on this time.  I knew a certain range I could venture fairly safely before triggering it, but I still played it safe and moved slowly.  I was in no hurry anyway.  Just off the deck I stopped.  Again I leaned my head back and enjoyed the rain plastering my face as I wiped my body all over like I was soaping up in nature's shower.  I stepped back up onto the deck and enjoyed the rain for a few minutes more.  I looked over at the sliding door, and there was the cat, watching me, wondering what one of her humans was doing out there in the rain with no covering.  About that time I started to chill and went for the hot tub towel.

I went in to a nice, warm house and the coffee was almost ready to pour.  It was a most excellent beginning to my day.

Okay, I didn't really dance in the rain... Physically anyway.  In my mind, however, I was doing cartwheels.

Violating the Night

The house was silent as I turned off the light and walked to the door. Slowly wrenching the door open, I winced as it complained on squeaky hinges, the outer storm door clicking all the way shut from the suction.

I had violated the stillness of night.

I stepped out into the cold and closed the door as quietly as I could, unknowingly holding my breath.  Fumbling in the dark, my key finally found its target and I turned the lock, hearing the soft clack of the bolt sliding home. Gazing upward, I breathed in the solitude of the stars. I walked out to the driveway, looking upward as I did so. Listening. There was no sound in the world but my own breathing. I stopped before I left the smooth concrete slab that masked the sound of my footsteps. Again looking upward, I let myself float away.

It felt as if the stars were displaying themselves to me--only me. In all the world there was no one else scanning the heavens at that moment. I was the solitary man facing the infinity of the universe. In an apparent greeting, they winked softly at me as I gazed. I relaxed my eyes, almost letting them close, as I took a slow, deep breath of the cold night. I tasted the quiet sweetness of the air as it passed into my body, feeling a slight vertigo as my mind thanked me. I breathed outward, at once both exhaling and emitting a sigh of resignation. I knew I must continue. I stepped off the concrete, resuming the short walk to my car.

Then again I violated the stillness of the night.

My footsteps on the gravel echoed loudly, threatening to wake the sleeping. They were amplified in the still morning, and I apologized silently to the world for daring to disturb the emptiness. I sighed with relief as my footsteps were once again silent when they reached the firmness of the asphalt road. As carefully as I could, I put my key into the door and unlocked the car. Opening the door, I slid onto the seat and started the car. Oddly, I felt no qualms about starting the car--perhaps because I felt safe there, sitting within its confines. The night was cold, however, and I opened the door with my ice scraper in hand, wielding it with heaviness, with the feeling I was on my way to commit a crime. Standing next to my car, I looked up at the stars. They seemed to be watching me, waiting for me to do what they knew I had to do. I looked down and I placed the scraper against the icy smoothness of the windshield and pushed.

Once more I violated the stillness of the night.

The car was already running, humming quietly, but even so the scream that was released by the complaining scraper made me close my eyes and pause momentarily. I winced, expecting every porch light on every house to snap on, their doors to open, and dogs their dogs to start barking. When that thankfully didn't happen, I resumed my task, almost feeling like I was breaking the law and finding myself in a hurry to get it finished and get out of there. I drove away, breathing a sigh of relief.

Behind me, the night was still once again.

The Twin vs. the Solitary Man

I'm not a too much of a believer in things intangible--astrology included, and yet, there is something real about the Gemini astrological sign.  There must be.  How else could I explain the strange polar opposites that occur in so many of my personality traits? Gemini (May 21-June 20) is the sign of the Twins.  So many things in the world can be described by the Gemini opposites.  Left and Right, Yin and Yang, Salt and Pepper, Good and Bad--the comparisons go on and on.  The description of a Gemini on this site is me almost to a tee.  I'm constantly battling two sides of myself. I want to be famous for something, yet, I want distance. Part of me wants to be public, while part of me wants to hide. I want to be in a parade but I want to wear a mask. When I want to be noticed its more like I hope to be noticed. I would be a guy that might clear my throat while pretending to be preoccupied--just so people will notice what I'm doing. It's like a strange inner turmoil going on that never seems to wane.  I have an exhibitionist side and a private side.   Part of me wants everyone to read my blog, and the other part won't tell anyone about it.  I want to be noticed, but I don't want anyone to notice me.  I want everyone to notice me, but I don't want to draw attention to myself.  I want to share things about myself, but I don't want anyone to find out about me.  I am my own enemy.  Sometimes I feel that everyone in the world is watching me.  An hour later, I'm doing or saying something in hopes everyone in the world will watch me. Sometimes the Twins take on the classic, "angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other" scenario, but when that does happen the good side usually wins.  I have certain ethics.

I've always been a clown. I've probably deep down had a desire to be appreciated. I want to be the one that makes a memorable remark, posts a memorable cartoon, or writes a memorable poem. Take my poetry blog for example. Although I may have many things there that I'm very proud of, I usually don't recommend it to anyone. Not any more. I've come to the realization that people generally don't give a damn about poems. I found that out one time when I posted a link to my poems on Facebook. I don't remember exactly what I said in the post, but I purposefully linked the main blog page instead of just the single post in hopes that people might spend some time exploring them all. I thought, "Maybe they'll see that there is something more to me, that I'm not just the glib person I appear to be on the outside." Did that happen? No. I may have gotten a comment and/or a "like" but that's it. Like many people that are proud of their work, I was seeking approval. I just wanted to be able to shrug my shoulders and feign a little, "aw, it was nothin..." While beaming broadly inside. I hoped for some sort of acknowledgment after posting a link to my private writings. Sure, some are whimsical and goofy, but many poured from my heart and soul.

When I get scorned a part of me shuts down. I can't help it. I get quiet and I retreat. The problem with being an adult is that there is no "retreat." I can't just go somewhere when I want to have total quiet without sparking some sort of resentment from my wife. In her mind I would be avoiding her. That would cause the exact opposite to happen. Instead of the solitude I wanted, I would be bombarded with questions and requests that I talk if something is bothering me. I can't seem to get it understood that I can easily sit all day long and never say a word when there is nothing wrong. I'm not hiding, mad, or sick every time I'm quiet and stand-offish. Sometimes I just want to be alone. I crave solitude sometimes. I respect solitude all of the time. During cold, winter mornings that I had to go to work, I actually felt ashamed to spoil the total stillness by scraping my windows.  It was so quiet and serene out there.  There was solitude.  I was the only one in the world.  I wanted to just stand there, taking deep breaths and enjoying the feeling with my eyes closed.  Instead, I literally winced when the first scrape pierced the quiet of the morning.  Some people choose to live their lives by themselves and some are thrust into it unwillingly. For me, I am one of those people that think I would love to live a solitary life, but on my terms. Meaning when I wanted human interaction I would seek it out. There are many times when I'm happy to sit all by myself in a crowded place and observe the variety of people that are scurrying around and going about their business. People watching. It's fun, and it provides me with some social interaction--though not personally. Plus, I can turn it off and leave any time I want.  Maybe I'm just being selfish, or maybe I've just never met anyone that was in tune with me.

Being the solitary person in certain situations has a sort of spiritual reward to me too. I'm not a believer in the bible, but there are times when a feeling of awe overwhelms me. The feeling that I am but a speck in the middle of something huge and grandiose. Sitting on a high hilltop, ocean beach, vast desert, or a scenic cliff--those are the times I get a feeling of deep introspection. I can sit in those places for hours and hours, all alone with my thoughts. If I were not by myself, not only would the quiet be lost, but so would the spiritual feeling. If you look up definitions of spiritual, only part of them have to do with religion. One of the definitions that I'm talking about is this: "having a mind or emotions of a high and delicately refined quality." I'm not saying my mind is either refined or high quality. I'm saying that in certain natural places, conditions, or situations I have the feeling of such.

I have been a source of controversy for years about the fact that I get up two hours before I need to every morning. People can't understand why anyone in their right mind would do such a thing if they didn't have to. You know why? Solitude. For those two hours I own the world. I can be here in my chair at my computer with no distractions, no interruptions, and no expectations. Add to that the fact that my mind is so much clearer and I feel more able to draw from within when I'm trying to write things down. The frustrating part is, lately I've found that I have some of my best ideas, notions, or little "seeds" of inspiration come to me an hour or two before bed. I can't really act on them then. To do so would be a battle of constant interruption with "what are you doing?" or that I'm ignoring or being neglectful. No, instead I try to jot down notes so that I can act on them during my morning "me" time the following day. Sometimes I can remember the train of thought that was behind the idea and sometimes not, but at least I have a chance.