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it's funny to realize how the impetuousness of youth wanes and flexes in the face of the years as they tick by
i used to be the type to fling myself out of the plane before giving it a second thought
yet now weighed down by the responsibility, the love, the very adultness of it all
i cannot be the flighty self that i once was

i fit into this new self like a new skin that requires a bit of adjusting
and after a brief uncomfortableness, it starts to feel seamless, like i haven't lived quite without it
i don't mind the new skin, the new self
the responsibility, the ownership is reward enough

the old me is indistinguishable from what once was.

complacency is hellfire

You should date an illiterate girl. Date a girl who doesn’t read.
Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. 
Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. 
Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her. 
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. 
Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. 
Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. 
Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. 
Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. 
Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. 
When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster.
Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. 
For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. 
If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same. 
Let the years pass unnoticed. 
Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. 
Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. 
Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love. 
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. 
Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. 
Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. 
A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. 
A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick. 
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. 

Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. 
A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. 
A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on.
Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived. 
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. 
The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. 
But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. 
She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness. 
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. 
You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. 
You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. 
You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. 
The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. 
She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. 
You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. 
But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. 
You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. 
You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. 
So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you.
-reposted from Thought Catalog

fame according to rick rubin

I was with this group of friends. We were having dinner at Mr. Chow's in Beverly Hills. When we got there, you almost couldn't get in the door because there were so many paparazzi outside -- so many that there were fire trucks out there, you know, trying to manage the crowd. We're sitting at dinner, and the red lights from the fire trucks are lighting up the whole restaurant. It felt like a scene from a war movie. It was insane. I was with these three other people. And we started trying to figure out who was creating this scene. We'd all been to Mr. Chow's a lot of times, but we'd never seen anything like this. It was about the time of the Coachella music festival. Madonna had played Coachella, so we're thinking, Maybe it's Madonna. I mean, she doesn't live here, so she's not around that much. Maybe it could be her causing so much attention. From there, we just kept throwing out names, trying to figure out who it could be. Finally, I got up from the table and I went to find out. And then I came back and I asked my friends, "Do you want me to tell you who it is, or do you want to try to guess?" And someone said, "Okay, let's play twenty questions." So the first question was, "Is this person famous for being a musical artist?" And I had to think about it. I didn't know how to answer that question. I think she's made music. She's made albums. But is she famous for that? I don't think so. So I decided the answer was no. And then someone asked, "Is this person famous for being a film star?" Hmm. I didn't know how to answer that question, either. Yes, she's been in films. But is that what she's famous for? I didn't think so, so I decided that answer was also no. And this went on for twenty questions. And the answers were all no. Everybody lost the game -- no one could say who it was. Here we were in Mr. Chow's, and literally, it was like World War III had broken out. And when I really thought about it, this person causing it wasn't famous for anything that you could really put your finger on. It was an interesting comment on our society.*

*It was Jessica Simpson.

warning: obnoxious heavy handed symbolic imagery/metaphor

I read often and thoughtfully. Yet it seems that very little sticks to me, lingers at the bottom of my shoe until I get aggravated enough to pull it off and examine the little bugger.

One of those buggers is an idea that a scientist put forward. Eternal life isn't a possibility for humankind because we breathe. Think of ourselves as candles. The oxygen we need to survive contributes to our doom, our wax waning year after year. What sustains us, destroys us.

I often wonder if our proverbial flame is why we feel the need to push ourselves forward in the events of our lives. Childhood then leads to the heartbreak of teenage life which leads to the bacchanalian college years which buckle down to the shackles of work which soften to the domestic comforts of marriage which encourages the repetition of the cycle by introducing a baby, repeat. All of our huffing and puffing at the flame to make it rise higher, burn brighter and faster than the rest. The fire of our lives consume us to the point where we need doctors/psychiatrists/yogis to tell us to slow down. Remind ourselves of the temporality of the flame. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

Yet I cannot deny the allure of the fast life, the fast light, if I'm going to continue hammering this cliched metaphor. The consumption of all that is now. The swiftly streaming and gliding past events and moments that a minute later I feel nostalgic about. In a perverse way, the burn reminds me of my aliveness, my nowness, and temporary tragic notion that all you know and all you are will eventually crumble and wash away, ash in the wind.

Even Jon knew this. At 17 he writes, "There's more to life than increasing it's speed. I hope everyone thinks that, because I do, but just like everyone else I forget about it and let my life get way too sped up and in it. We all need something to slow us down."Which leaves me wondering, what's worth more- a life consumed quickly or that one with a slow burn?

reputation is something people with courage can do without

I had a dream last night that for whatever reason has lingered in the recesses of my pillows.

I won't bore you with the extraneous details, those little side streets that betray logic and reason that dreams tend to take freely, but needless to say this dream centered around a wedding. A couple I know in real life played a part, but in my dream the boy was marrying someone other than his girlfriend (the bride had brown hair- a detail that seemed quite important) for religious and cultural reasons. His girlfriend is real life was forced to attend and watch the whole thing. I, being the observer (and perpetrator), half expected the girlfriend to drink and smash her champagne glass, make a big ill-advised speech, at least do something to voice her displeasure. Instead, she had a calm conversation with her boyfriend, conveyed her respect for his decision, and exited. End dream.

Though it's painful to admit, I've judged this couple largely because the girlfriend is a type that I can't abide. The boyfriend is a kind rarely found in Los Angeles- tall, handsome, charismatic, straight. Yet when I met his girlfriend, I couldn't understand what he found so fascinating. She was and is quiet- a mortal sin in my book. Being quiet is a slippery slope toward being boring.

She, my holier-than-thou brain rationalized, was the archetypal passive female, content to let her mate revel in the spotlight rather than challenge it. Her boyfriend, I thought, didn't want to be challenged by his significant other- he wanted someone simple (another mortal sin). At least I, my smug thoughts grew even smugger, speak my mind, let my presence be known.

However, once you peel away the arrogance and the judgement, you'll find my greatest fear. That my attributes on which I hang my hat- my passion, my opinions, my voice- are my worst attribute. Take for instance, that woman that you inevitably encounter at any party. The loud girl who blathers on stupidly. The obnoxious one who won't just shut the fuck up. The quiet one at least, you'll never know quite what she's thinking. Whereas the loud girl invades your space, the quiet one pulls you into her orbit.

My way isn't always the right way. There is a grace in politeness, in not speaking your mind whenever the thoughts pop into your head. There is a mystery in the unsaid. There is something to be said about withholding.

Does the beginning foreshadow the end of things?

"So yeah, we broke up." I notice she isn't clutching a drink in her hand and find it odd.
"Oh really...I didn't realize that you guys were together", I reply and immediately remember that it isn't true. There was this one time at a ladies night at Dominicks on Beverly ("Ladies night" are nine times out of ten held at Italian restaurants for the excuse to order carbs and cheese. Sushi spots are the second choice if we're feeling especially virtuous but then we get crispy rice and spicy tuna and that really isn't low calorie now is it ladies) when she walked by us on her way out with his beefy self following close behind. The lack of hand holding was immediately obvious to everyone and after a brief hello she sauntered away, him following her dutifully like a bodyguard.
"Yeah it was a couple of months", she sighed and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and brushed aside a few honey colored strands. I get distracted by her perfectly colored hair (or heaven's is it REAL?) and then remember to focus, she's probably still feeling a little bruised.
She continues, "It's funny. Last Saturday night? After the party? We ended up in the same group that went to a strip club."
"A strip club?"
"Yeah, Crazy Girls. An asshole was this far from my face", she measures a six inch space from her eye for effect.
"Jesus."
"Yeah, the funny thing is...is that that's how we started...we both ended up at a strip club and afterwards I went for it."
Turns out beautiful women get their heart broken too. The ex in question runs with a notorious circle that seem to revel in fraternity/Ari Gold cliches- measuring their worth by the circumference of their bicep and the prestige of their client list.The sad reality is that just the facade of alpha masculinity is enough to fool most.
"Those guys are the worst", I reply. I can just see them now, flipping off dollar bills from their latest bonuses at naked women thinking that because they pay they have the power.
"Yeah, the funny thing is that is they are so loyal to each other. It's their ladies that get screwed over."
"They're probably secretly fucking each other."
We share a mournful laugh. I look into the bottom of my vodka-cranberry-soda for answers. Finding none, we avoid eye contact and look at everyone else, having fun.

deprived

My body is betraying me. Saturday night sleeps are always an unreliable lot- they're either disrupted by too many glasses of Sauvignon Blanc drying out my bloodstream or other festivities extending way past  my normal knock out time leaving me fitful and restless once I hit the pillow. But not this time. There's something that's unsettling me and as much as I crave an escape of a couple of hours of unconsciousness, my body clearly sees fit to remind me.

It's not the ring. It's not him. He's fantastic- my curly haired, rap-loving, cradle of support. He pushes me to be the best version of myself and let's be honest, I've always been a book in desperate need of a thorough edit. Maybe gold stars are to blame. Maybe the trophies that accompanied every minor accomplishment in childhood built up this lofty gnawing need for recognition. I still want my purple "Good Effort" ribbon.

Maybe this is a humbling spoon of reality. Maybe it's good not to have everything I want, to allow an area of my life leaving me wanting. Maybe I need to not want. Maybe I should become a Buddhist.

beached

Every morning I wake up, brush my teeth, slip into something gauzy, and walk downstairs.

Even though all the doors are closed and the air conditioning is blasting something fierce, you can still hear the cacophony of insects and birds clamoring to be heard from their tree podiums. I've always been unnerved by complete silence so this tropical symphony rocks me into a gentle state of constant calm.

I pour Costa Rican coffee which is slightly sour but enters my bloodstream at breakneck speed and sip it until my body is humming. I crack and cook eggs which are carrot orange and slip them on top of pillowy pieces of buttered toast. Once fed, I pull open the sliding door and feel the thick, rich, perfumed air seep in.

Our view overlooks a cove where even from our perch on top of a hill,  we can still hear the waves roar as they smash into the sand. Once in a while, Squirrel Monkeys or Capuchin Monkeys will jump onto our balcony from the surrounding palm trees and we reward them with a banana or two for their inquisitive nature and cartoonish pratfalls. Lizards are everywhere but you don't realize it until you walk in their direction and they scurry away like little children caught eavesdropping. One of our guides once told us, "You have no idea how many eyes are watching you from the jungle". You get the sense that this is true and wonder how many silent witnesses are watching you from amongst the palm fronds.
 

I just thought I would be in a different place.

Everything else is great. And not in the way where I overly post on my various social media accounts to assure the world that I'm sure cares that everything in wonderful, really, honestly, in that desperate, pained way that just reeks of the opposite. I actually do mean it.

But it's human nature, isn't it, to focus on what isn't. Someone in college once told me about how life is like a stovetop with four burners- one representing family, one friends, one love, and one career. Three can only be burning at the same time. See if you can guess which one I'm fixated on.

It's hard because this burner dominates my thoughts, my energies, my survival as an adult person. For a majority of my time, I feel invisible, inconsequential, unrecognized. The skills that I think I have, the skills that people I love assure me that I have, maybe they are just apart of this elaborate delusion.

Yet I perserve. This delusion, this idea of what I want to do, as ridiculous as it is, is all I have to hang onto. There isn't really a plan B. There's shades of a plan C, D, or E but those plans are shades of pleasures that I indulge myself in, not actual pursuits. There's nothing but this. I can't let my upbringing, my fear, my insecurity swallow me whole.

domestic bliss

how appropriate it is that the emblem of adulthood is owning a house.

adulthood is about finding the one. adulthood is about creating a family and home with that one. adulthood is about introducing new ones into the world. adulthood is about the process of segregating oneself. letting go of the party friends, letting go of the hierarchal social structure that dominated our energies and minds from middle school onward. the people on the peripheral who always could hand you a glass of wine but not the type to pick up the phone past 3:00 AM on a Tuesday night. it's about the drifting away and the moving forward, the desire for satiety and fulfillment on all fronts and the letting go of the frothy, the trivial, the fleeting.
as i get older, i realize that we might die alone but our fantasy is dying with the other holding our hand.

how appropriate it is that the emblem of young adulthood is renting an apartment.

there's always someone within the vicinity. the lack of the plan didn't always result in the death of a night. the nighttime was a blossoming opportunity, a malleable thing that could either result in your greatest triumph or monumental tragedy. you're in love with wanting to change the worst in people; correction- be the one that changes the worst in people. you get off on that period of transience. everything is now, everything is magnificent, everything is terrible, whyisthishappening, ohmygodthisfeelsfantastic, don'tstopdon'tstop.
when i was young, i realized the value of living in the present.

dissolving into a million pieces in a billion places

her own self is betraying her but she lets it.

what must it be like not to trust your own mind? what happens to a person when their memories so precise in chronological order are shaken up like a bingo wheel and you are left to sort through the broken pieces?

truthfully we've never been close. blood bonds us but little else. i'm too outspoken, too inappropriate, eating with my elbow on the table and knife raised almost like i'm ready for any unseen combat, an obtuse reminder of the schism between ladylike gentility of her time and the abhorrent modern rejection of those values.

yet we've always harbored an affection. i was the first grandchild, a boon to her good genes with her ski-jump nose leaping generations to my face and her translucent skin on my back. however, that deep-seated understanding between generations has eluded us for reasons i can only speculate.

seeing her now, during the only time of year that i have had in the past seven years, breaks my heart in ever increasing unique ways. only the disease crafted by the cruelest hand could possibly create one that lets the infected's mind crumble while those who love them watch the person they knew disintegrate.

of course now, at the likely end of her days, is the time when i want to know her most, to understand her. how typical of the human condition to only want that which is increasingly out of their reach. i'm going to interview her. to sit her down with a cup of herbal tea and some recording device and ask her questions not through the lens of the family member but as someone who just wants to know about her. i'm afraid if i don't do this, she's going to slip away through my fingertips like sand. i want her to be known. i want her to have an impact. i want her life to have meaning.