Autumn

Now is the autumn of my discontent 

My being I 

I being this ailing world 

And within it 

A speck called me. 

A leaf

Browned in vein.

Falling 

Falling 

Falling 

To the tired earth.

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Thoughts

This blog has once more become a private sanctuary. I’m glad for it. Exposure is lovely. Solitude is better. Even still I worry for my privacy. For my ability to speak without consequence. Hence the physical journal that no one sees. The one in which I haven’t written a heartfelt thing in months. I have shied from it. I’m tired. Wishing I could sleep. Wishing that artistry wasn’t such a struggle. Wishing this world supported my craft on a socioeconomic level. Wishing what I did for money didn’t secretly ruin my sense of self while seeming to empower it. I live in a catch 22. Paradox is my middle name. Sadness haunts me when I cannot hear it. Body image issues hang like shadows over my being. A yearning to be what I can never be. A yearning to turn the clock back to a time before high school. Somewhere amidst the blossoming of my true self. To a time when I could have changed my fate. But what I am. The life I lead. Appear to me fated. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Fixed. Static. So again acceptance forces its way into my mouth. Forces its way into the meat of me. The core that demands peace. That is made of it. That is shrouded in illusory tapestries of misplaced suffering. So here I am. Alive. And that must be good enough. That must be sufficient. For I’ve no other option but death. And death is no option at all. Because it will come of its own accord at some point. There is no rush and there is no uncertainty about it. Only the necessity to live well and rightly and bear whatever the universe has seen fit to lay upon my plate. 

Home, Wherever.

I am growing tired of this life, and in the short distance I sense a new world on my horizon. Since I’ve no pull in anyone direction, I feel am becoming accustomed to this perpetual fall. But soon I suspect this momentum will carry me home. People ask me, “where are you living nowadays?” I tell them the truth. Well, first I laugh–if for no other reason than to celebrate the absurdity of my current circumstances. But then I tell them: I don’t really have a home right now and I’m becoming okay with that. “Well where are you sleeping?” They ask. “Wherever. Here and there.” 

For a long time I have regarded things like a lease or a job as weights–burdens–shackles, ball, and chain. I have avoided their grasp. Allowed myself the space to wander without certain aim. My aim is inward. The direction of growth. Learning. Evolving my person. It is a matter of striving to be the best human I can be. To make the most of this mess we call life. And while I may not know where my physical home is, I know where my etheric home is; I know that I can always pursue higher plateaus of self. Wherever I roam, the journey remains essentially the same: be a good person, embody my joy, humble myself before the mirror of others. And be present for what I’m in contact with. That’s all there is really. 

Leaping

It was the willingness to fall flat on my face that allowed me to soar.

The chip on my shoulder and fire in my gut that gave me the courage to leave.

It was this invisible place, this inner sanctum, this burning passion, that prompted me to pursue my dreams.

It was standing in the bathroom banging my chest because I knew there was no one else who could fulfill my dreams for me but me.

It was the anger with which I left grad school. The drive to rush headlong into my highest aspirations.

I am remembering now what fuels me, though I have forgotten, though rejection has deflated my sails, stolen my vigor, and left me filled with questions, left me reeling in a sad complacent depression, thinking often of suicide, often of escape, often of how hopeless and pitiful my life is. But I am remembering what led me to leave. I am remembering what has given me strength.

It’s nothing but love. Love for the craft that has been my gift since birth. Love for the written word. Love for the only thing that really matters to me.

I mustn’t forget. I must keep my eye on the ball even if I can’t see the ball. I must pull myself out of the mud and the dark and refocus myself upon the light.

I am still leaping. I am still falling. May I continue until I die. May I never forget, never never ever again who I am.

I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

Thoughts on Expectation

It is difficult to divorce myself from the expectation of outcome. Even as I write this I wonder, how many views will it get? Will anyone read it? Does it matter that I am writing it at all? How easy it is for me to slip into a nihilistic void with my art! Down the spiral, I begin to say nothing matters; that writing serves no purpose at all; that in the end, death comes to find us; and our accomplishments are weighed back to zero. So what is the point? I hope my work touches someone; but will it do so in a meaningful way? Will there be some larger meaning behind my work? Some larger reason for persisting with it? Or should I get up from this chair right now and slip into the river naked and ready to drown?

An Essay On Magic (Pt. 1)

TLDR: Love lost is the abdication of magic-making to other.

And yet, it is equally possible that what I yearn for is not an actual person but an experience.

The phrase, ‘love lost,’ is a curious one, isn’t it? For it implies that love can be lost. But is not the first inflammation of love an inward experience? Does it not rise up within you? Though it surely does in response to the meeting of another, but nonetheless it happens within. The individual feels love for the other and so is ushered across a threshold, a threshold that divides the ordinary from the magical.

Yes! The magical! Across the great divide lies the beauty of fortuity, the song of synchronicity. The huge feeling that the individual is now apart of something much larger than their small self; a sort of hidden experience; a big secret.

But it is only by our own blindness that we forget the internal nature of our love. We hunger after the other when the well within us has run dry. We forget to conjure our own magic. So we are incensed by falsehoods. We are caught up in wrong ideas, all the while dismissing a certain truth:

Of personal responsibility. Does love not strike us at the oddest moments? Does it not come to us when we are in the midst of making our own magic? Far too often, I have found that it does–that my greatest loves have come upon me in a time of effortful striving. The first time, striving to move west, to transfer to another university somewhere off the Puget Sound, immersing myself in philosophy, sociology, political theory, and of course creative writing. And there it was, in my creative writing class that I first met her–the first love of my life. An important love. For she shaped me in ways no one else could have done. She brought me to myself and then left me there. And I thank her for that. But not to forget the original premise of this paragraph: that love comes when we are building our own ship; which is not to say we should build our ship in order to find love. For then, we are not actually acting out of self-love or self-motivation; we are acting for the sake of manifesting a rather specific set of circumstances.

I used to live in New York City, and by live I mean I rented a room in Brooklyn for two months before deciding to go back home to the Midwest. I had gone there to follow what turned out to be a manufactured dream–taken from movies and television and books–the dream of being a writer in New York City. But I soon found the city overwhelming, the people sad, angry, and depressed–about what exactly I was not sure, though I suspected it had something to do with the lack of space. Humans need space, you know? We need space to roam and wander and climb. We are, after all, descendants of primates who first leapt from tree to tree, then found their way into the grasslands. I suspect we are all just looking for our grasslands now.

In any case, I lived in New York City for two months before packing all my things into my Subaru and going back to Kansas City. When I came back, a number of important events happened. Most importantly, I met Robert–the man who would show me the reality of energy. Robert gave me some words to live by:

“Act on your highest passion every moment that you can, taking it as far as you can, to the best of your ability, with Zero expectation of the outcome.” (We will revisit this later)

Yes, and I learned of these words in the midst of a great crisis. For years I had been trying to go to Thailand for gender confirming surgery. But it never happened. Four times it had fallen through. Four times I was forced to reschedule. So this was July when I came back from Brooklyn. My new date was scheduled for February. So I had all this time to fill out. And I will not bore you with all the details. But we must note that, quite fortuitously, my first love reappeared in my life. We saw each other at a concert. She touched my hand. And I felt this passion rise inside me. I remembered my feelings for her. I had buried them for a long time. I had actually convinced myself at one point that my attraction to women was merely the manifestation of some internal fragmentation (in other words, I was looking for a woman to fulfill me but that woman was me). And sure, this was true in some sense. I had disowned my own feminine persona, and sought it in her. But now, as we danced together in this dimly lit bar, I realized that wasn’t entirely true. It seems so rudimentary looking back, that I couldn’t just accept that I was both a woman and attracted to women. I’ll never not find that funny.

So she awakened something which had slept in me. She awakened my love. But it was not requited. She awakened something she did not intend to love in return. And I am ultimately thankful for that. For it set me on the path to an even greater love.

And it happened quite out of the blue. It happened right as I had decided I was through looking for love; that I was on a path to another state, a new school, a new way of life, and it would be on that path that I’d come upon my next love; so I was through looking for it. I began to longboard more, write more, make more music. I did it all without any sort of expectation of outcome. I did it because I wanted to, because I found joy in it. That’s when I met her. And I will not tell you of our love. Because I can’t. Because it was beyond words. Beyond conveyance. It was our secret. Our gift. I can only say of our love that it came rife with gratuitous magic. A magic that engulfed and inflamed the both of us. A flame that still burns in me today. Burns me as a bonfire burns a log, until it is nothing but smoldering ash.

And here I am today, smoldering ash, writing of love lost, questioning whether it is her I am missing or the experience of that love, that gratuitous magic. And if it is the latter, which I am inclined to believe, then I must admit, nay, I must celebrate my own potential to create magic in my life.

Thus, I feel, the point of this small essay is to ask the question: what is magic and how do I create it?