Tapestry of Commonality

As the impurities of our insecurities weigh us down, we prematurely sometimes obscurely wonder who would betray us now.  But I look at you, not how you look at me, and wonder who mistook your beauty as an invitation to cruelty.   

As this fixation gets to me,
I would not expect you to understand

The entirety of our anxiety goes unspoken but understood.  With analysis comes paralysis as I wonder why you would.  Because I look at you then look at me and cant figure out why you should. 

Every thought is sliced in half.  Every word becomes a paragraph.  Every sigh seems to multiply until all I can do is laugh.   Its how I look at you, not how you look at me, that turns my world to glass.  And I dare you to shatter me before my flattery turns us into ash.

What we call abstinence is merely a tapestry of events culminating to an exquisite, sublime plan.
Overkill and over-analysis seems to be in high demand
I would not expect you to understand.

The sum of all our parts glued together by two hearts.  As they beat as one, the adrenaline and the rush become the medicine for us.  And its exhilarating and contagious.  I look at me, not how I look at you, with disgust. 

From anticipation to that first thrust
Its the celebration of us
I would not expect you to understand.

The entirety of our anxiety goes unspoken but understood.  With analysis comes paralysis as I wonder why you would.  Because I look at you then look at me and cant figure out why you should. 

I do not expect you to understand.

Chris Cornell

He or she could sing the phone book...

It's one of those rare cliches that actually means something.  It's never used for the Britney Spears or Donny Osmond's or even the Paul McCartneys of the world.  It's reserved for the unique, the special, those whose talent is so remarkable that "talented" sounds insulting. 

The Adeles, the Whitneys, the Freddy Mercurys and yes, the Chris Cornells all merit that cliche.

Those who write; be it, lyrics or novels or simplistic pieces as I am doing now, all find a common thread in our self-described art... Inspiration: the intangible stimulant that gets our creative juices flowing. 

For some, it's heartbreak.  What better way to honestly emote the suffering you feel at a given moment than writing?  Joy; such as falling in love is another catalyst for artists.  When you experience moments of joy you want the world and the individual responsible for it to know and feel it. 

For me, yes, those are the two themes I consistently stick with when publicly and vulnerably throwing these into the outside world.  However, there is a third one:  Nostalgia.   What really is nostalgia?  It's when something tangible (i.e. a song on the radio, a scent, a simple name) reminds us of past intangibles like heartbreak or joy.

Two nights ago, the world lost Chris Cornell.  Like many from my generation, it left a hollow feeling of emptiness in me.  Was I one of his "biggest" fans?  Not really... but I am a fan of extraordinary talent. 

Talent is an aphrodisiac.  Rock stars, actors, athletes.. go ahead, pick a career that takes spectacular talent; you'll find the least attractive get the most attractive.  It's not the money or fame.  It's talent.  Those who shine the brightest...

Chris Cornell shone brightly in a perpetually overcast and dreary city called Seattle. 

Seattle is credited as the birthplace of grunge; the angst ridden music genre that transitioned us from the vapid hair bands of the 80s and was the precursor to the ridiculously choreographed boy bands of the mid to late 90s. 

Grunge meant something to us.  It was dirty.  Honest.  Joyless.  Hopeless.  Grunge was the genre of dysfunctional and often severely unhappy musicians talking TO young people and kids like me.  It was relate-able.  Seattle, its birthplace, makes perfect sense.  It's not happy sunny Hawaii.

It's no mystery why the great ones from that era are almost all gone.  Cobain, Scott Weilland, Layne Staley, Andrew Wood and now, Chris Cornell; either, from suicide or drug overdoses.

Joyless people or those wallowing in hopelessness not only sing about it, they live it.  And ultimately, die from it. 

I know a good dozen cliches for those who ponder suicide or want to taste faith and hope.  I know the 12 steps of recovery.  I could add a few paragraphs with some self-righteous inspiration to end this neatly with a bow so whomever reads this might possibly feel good.

I'm not going to do that.

Chris Cornell killed himself two nights ago.

The world is now darker without his talent.  And I find myself nostalgically longing for the days when I was younger shaking my head in agreement as Nirvana or Soundgarden and the other grunge bands lamented their hopelessness.

Chris Cornell could sing the phone book. 

Evolution of Us

Hypothetical lifetime with you.  Unforgettable and sublime from my point of view .  It's love, it's love, it's love.  Spring is here, everything's anew.



Anxiety killed the dinosaurs.  It will kill us, too.



Profound sadness fills the air.  Put your hands around my neck and choke away this despair.  Oh but, it's love, it's love, it's love.  I'm the second coming.  Deja vu.



Hypothetical kiss on the cheek.  Nicotine lips taste so sweet.  Keep your sticky fingers away from my heart, you speak.  Oh but it's love, it's love, it's love.   Antiquated ideas provide the missing link.



Hypothetical devil speaking in my ears.  Skeptical of sentimental crocodile tears yet highly suggestible after all these years.  Oh but it's love, it's love, it's love.  Mystical or cynical, one must disappear.  Hypothetical angel swinging from our chandelier. 

Anxiety killed the dinosaurs and their fossils became souvenirs.

Profound anticipation fills the air.  Dig your nails into my spine so I know you care.  And if it's love, if it's love, if it's love; scream it everywhere.  I'm the second coming.  Aut neca aut necare.

Hypothetical until death should do us part.  An unbearable last breath and a broken heart.  It's love, it's love, it's love.  

Anxiety killed the dinosaurs; isolated and apart. 

Hypothetical lifetime with you.  Unregrettable and sublime from my point of view.   It is love, it is love, it is love.  Spring is here, everything's anew.

The F word

Finally felt like I found the future.
Possessed with a powerful faith, the ancients called fatum.
Figured you for destiny with forever being its finality
I was never being facetious or fallacious
It's never fair to project the familiar
while sabotaging the unfamiliar
Maybe, my sticky fingers held on too firmly
but I never claimed to not be flawed
I fail more often than I don't
and I never ask to be fixed
Only forgiven
Few can find a best friend
Freedom cannot co-exist with fear
I feared your resentment would resurface
My good intentions formed distrust
I take full responsibility and fault
It's never fair to find sadistic joy
while feigning to be a victim
If we are truly finished
and cannot fix what has been fractured
I will look back at you fondly
and favor you above the rest
I had hoped our foundation
was firm enough for this
It's never fair to confuse the literal
with the subjective figuratively
Your anger isn't foreign
Your forgiveness surely is
If we, of all people, could not make this function
Then this world is surely fucked.

Sodium Pentothal

I think we all reach a point in our lives where we wish it was how it used to be.  We begin to fondly look back at moments in our lives that we once couldn't wait to surpass.   When we're younger, we're always looking ahead.  When we're older, we are always looking backwards.

I remember the name of every girl who broke my heart.  I can describe each one from head to toe whom did not return the same level of interest as I had in her.  And those who loved me, excluding a few, remain in the forgotten ashes of my youth.  I suppose we tend to take those who love us, those who want us for granted; as if, they or someone like them will always be waiting...

When I was younger and less tame than I am now, I may have been fixated on fun, friends and living in the moment as most of us were but I always had one eye open on tomorrow.  I wanted to be a dad for the simple reason, I never had one.  I wanted a wife; the perfect wife.   Perfect for me... A woman that could deal with my neediness, laugh at all my jokes even if she didn't get my train of thought... A woman who could intellectually stimulate me while having that grace and beauty God blessed the woman with... I wanted what most men want.

I got older and began to realize I am more ordinary than I ever realized and more special than I ever gave myself credit for... It's this unhealthy blend of self-depreciation and arrogance.

I have these detailed dreams constantly.  If I take a nap for 10 minutes or an hour or the rare nights, I make it to three hours of sleep without waking up, it's the same thing... I wake up with this profound sadness that leaves a lump in my throat and an emptiness I cannot describe.  There is no joy in my dreams.   I don't even know if there ever was.

I am no different than anyone else whose mind is always racing, whom faces these profoundly dark and coded dreams.  Like them, I tend to think this alone makes me unique.  So, what do I do?  I look for someone to tell those dreams to; as if, anyone really wants to hear them and decipher them for me.  Truth is, maybe, it's just a simple way of letting someone know you need them and if they are willing to just listen and grace me with just enough empathy to allow the dream to fade from memory, I'll feel like someone does care about me.

It's a difficult admission to state or even write that you really don't know who cares about you.  At some point, we become so cynical, we just assume there's this small window in life to achieve love and being loved.  If we miss that window, it becomes our life's mission to just hope someone needs us. 

In the last decade, I've developed some anxiety.  Okay, I want to blame technology or just the normal aging process.  I tried to blame temporary bouts of loneliness.  Truth is, I've always had anxiety but I was never able nor willing to diagnose myself.  I can now.

I look back and start thinking of the names and faces of each person I have ever loved.  And do love.  I desperately try to find exactly what went wrong.  Where I went wrong.  Where I always go wrong.  Maybe, I've just been looking at the wrong things.  We should always demand the best from ourselves; the best versions of ourselves we can become BUT that doesn't mean our self-worth is based on failures or someone not accepting this version of ourselves.   I think true love exists only when two people seek to transform the other into the best version of themselves.  Together.


Twenty minutes ago, I had a dream.  I was standing in the kitchen with the mother of my dead best friend.  She's bringing in groceries.  She says, "there's a steak on the shelf for you".  I look around and every inch of that kitchen wall is covered in family portraits.  No matter where I look, the eyes of that once breathing and vibrant best friend are following me.

As I am preparing this steak bought just for me, walks in the woman I find myself preoccupied with these days... She looks at me and says, "I'll cook it for you" and then she simply disappears.

So, I wake up with this gnawing feeling of loss... Not the loss of the once great friend or this woman I just wish returned the same level of interest I have in her BUT this loss of time.

I love where I am in life. 

I hate it, too.

Off She Goes

Found a solution for the two of us.   As the world burns
She don't know my ideas
Just my dreams
And there she goes looking everywhere
It seems we travel in extremes
and we get nowhere
I approached with caution
til the wind caught word
She don't know but I got ideas
Off she goes with the herd
Seems I'm late
She don't know how long I'd wait

And there she goes
holding the rear view mirror
We never say goodbye
She's been taking too much on
And there she goes with my ideas
And I hold my breath
I draw a picture of the two of us
And watch the colors fade
She don't know I'll just try again

And now the devil thinks he gets the last laugh
He don't know my ideas
Just my fears
And there he goes giving up on me

Found a place for the two of us
As the world burns
See, I've got ideas
buried in my dreams
And there she goes always one step ahead
She don't know my ideas
Just my mistakes
Off she goes and I hold on tight

And she don't see what I see
focused too much on uncertainty
And I hold my breath
And draw a picture of the two of us
Off she goes with her perfect smile
And I will wait
She don't know my ideas
Just my words

And there she goes with her own ideas
I don't know whats between us
And I close my eyes
til she returns
and is off again

The Hardest Thing

Everyone wants to see the happy ending.  To see all loose ends tied neatly together in the end.   It's the formula for all good movies or ones that do well at the box office.  Good is subjective, of course.

I get it.  Movies are supposed to be our escape.  A distraction.  A time to put away critical thinking and just accept that which we see on screen is not a reflection of life but moreso, a microcosm of how we wish life was. 

Life is messy.  Chaotic.  Dramatic.  Up.  Down. 
Happy endings run about 50/50.  Probably less.

I got stuck on some romance movie recently as I was flipping through the channels.  Can't even tell you the title because I showed up mid-movie.  It was the attractive crying actress that made me pause to watch.  Her friend leaned into her and started parroting the most annoying movie cliche ever used... Some variation of that If you love someone, let them go.  If they come back, they are yours.  I turned the channel that very second.  I knew the rest of the movie.  Boy comes back.  Redemption.  Girl happy.  Vindication.  Happily ever after. 

To call something a tired cliche is redundant.  I realize that... but this old movie line often used by the inexperienced at life crowd to cheer up a hurting friend is a tired cliche.  It's bullshit, really. 


I've probably had over 50 best friends in my life.  For as early as I can remember, I've always looked for someone in my life to slap that label on.  Once that current best friend slipped out of my life, I looked for a new one.  It was important to me to have a best friend.  Maybe, it's just a result of being one of those no dad, latchkey kids who constantly sought attention and acceptance.   Defining myself by whom accepts me.  Having a best friend makes us special to that one person.  Best means everyone else is a little less important. 

I think we all have a need to feel important.  To, at least, one person.  I, also, think it's important we go out of our way to fulfill that need in them.  Regardless, if it's reciprocated.


Most of my life lessons come from two places:  my failures and my old black lab, Buddy.  Self awareness doesn't take us too far if we aren't aware of those around us.  What better example of how a life should be lived than a dog? 

Man's best friend is a well deserved title.  It was for Buddy.

His natural curiosity and inbred need to be free often led him to ignore my demands to stay.  On a few occasions, I foolishly took him outside without a leash and of course, that led to him running away.  I've got a dozen stories about how I believed I had lost him forever.  If a dog chooses to disappear once you've given him the opportunity, we are at their mercy.

The beauty of dogs is they want to come back.  On their terms.  When they are ready.  And they will come back.  Always.

I can't say I believe this holds true of people.  We have self-created obstacles of pride, pettiness, stubbornness, and foolishness that dogs don't possess. 

We act like letting go is a choice.  Some badge of courage when we succeed.  That's bullshit, too.


If you love someone, you can never let them go, not even for a second, or they're gone forever. 
It's a cynical way to view life but it's safe. 

And well proven.

I used to think the hardest thing I've ever done is say goodbye.  Be it, the day I took Buddy to the vet to end his suffering as his cancer riddled body doomed him.  Or be it, the last night on earth for my best friend as he staggered away from my car like a wounded cowboy stumbling off into the sunset.  Or be it, those I loved but knew we were just not meant to be....

But I was wrong.

The hardest thing I've ever done involved silence. 
Those times where I wasn't afforded some closure.  
Those I simply chose to just walk away from without the kindness that goodbye allows us. 
And those moments where the universe had decided tomorrow simply wasn't in someone's cards.

Not saying goodbye is the hardest thing I've ever done.

If you love someone, don't let them go.

Anyone tells you differently, its bullshit.