A Christmas Eve Mea Culpa

How's that for dramatic? To a degree, it's accurate but honestly I just wanted to use the cool title. In honor of the birth of Our Redeemer, I've decided to eliminate the full display of the f-word. For today and tomorrow, f*** will be presented as f***. Happy birthday, Jesus!

This was supposed to be a venom-filled rant tearing into some of the most basic of human weaknesses. I would like to say, "Christmas Eve is not the time for such things; I've been filled with the Holy Spirit!" That would be a disingenuous feces-filled crock, although I concede that today is hardly the day to crucify anyone! Verbally or otherwise. I shant be doing much of that, but will offer a bit of some personal, clarifying insight into what's been happening with me over the last few months- it may or may not surprise you. What will surprise you is what made me realize it!

It would appear that these concepts of self-delusions and "faking beliefs" to fit a purpose have been much more powerful than I realized. It's inadvertently forced me to take another near-complete personal inventory, to "borrow" again from A.A. I've mentioned often that I've pummeled myself as much as Andre, Wendie, Chris, or anyone. It would appear, however, that I've been hammering away not only at me and my ego, but at the very foundation of my core-beliefs and looking for weaknesses. I was trying to actually CREATE then FIND fractures-of-inconsistency not only by provoking others, but... myself. I must fascinate the mental health community! But, it's necessary. It bears fruit. What you've seen over the last 100 days is a public evolution!

The amusing part of this is how the simplest of things provided the proper perspective to see all of this from the inside. I was wrangling and trying to reconcile my agreement with Alison's violent rejection of "everything happening for a reason." A few scant months ago, this was a primary fundamental; synchronicity etc. Meanwhile, via the creepy-wonderment that is Facebook, I was reunited with a HS classmate, Jennifer, who commented on that post; on this very topic. In a flurry of thought, I realized that based on what she had read, she probably had NO idea that we were likely in near agreement on this. It was then thrown into momentarily crystal-clear focus exactly where I had ventured since returning to Santa Fe in September. I was continuing on a grand scale (and publicly) something I've done a hundred times in my journals over the last 5-years: subjecting my ideas and beliefs to brutal beatings to see if they'd survive... or if I was just full of shit. As Chris so eloquently put it, I was "beating the f**k out of myself." Guilty. Not surprisingly, Chris is also of the opinion that I should be easier on myself (and by extension others).

Not surprisingly, I told him to go f**k himself. (Kidding. Or am I?)

So here's mea maxima culpa quod explicatus: If you've yet to notice, I tend to be a bit unforgiving & impatient of those searching for, or walking the path I have perhaps already stumbled! My frustration (and anger) is born out of legitimate concern and love for people, believe it or not. I wasted too much time assuming "someone or something would show me the way" before realizing I was the one I was waiting for. So, realizing that, I have what I consider a gift I desperately want to give to myself 15-years ago! But, after digging thru my journals I was reminded of some things I learned a long time ago, and had apparently neglected to remember:

“Wisdom is not communicable. The wisdom which a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish... Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.”

"When someone is seeking ... it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything ... because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal."

And my favorite: "The deity is within you, not in ideas and books. Truth is lived, not taught." -Hermann Hesse

In short: Sit the f**k down, and shut the f**k up! Sound familiar?


Before I'm accused of backtracking, bite your tongue! Nothing would be further from the truth. Self-delusions are a peculiar human epidemic, but alas: perhaps they must be for the vast majority of people. We're born, bred, and die immersed in illusion. If you don't believe that, imagine a year-long power failure. In this presentation, comfort & illusion are what keeps most of us sane; from contemplating the reality of mental/ societal slavery. Huxley's SOMA, or Cypher's Matrix. Take your pick, but people...

"given the choice, will select entertainment... over information; citizens will prefer to have someone else handle the responsibility for their lives rather than face the burdens...; we will willingly choose slavery over freedom. Political and intellectual slavery are noting more than accepting the security provided by a benevolent authority." -Donald N. Wood Post-intellectualism and the Decline of Democracy p. 211

This is a quote that when I first read and contemplated it rattled me out of my progressive stupor. That being said, it's vital to understand one simple thing: I've not been intentionally attacking man-en-mass. My method is to attack ideas. The manipulation of truth/ self-delusion is an idea that is, unfortunately, attached directly to the individual; identifiable on an individual level. Identifiable in each-and-every one of us if we look hard enough. (Notice I didn't say "long enough"; it's there right now!) I used my previously futile attempts to quit smoking, and how the identification of them helped me to quit last month in order to illustrate it in myself. I could use many more over the last few years. In fact, I already have. Those on the email list already know, after 14-emails, what I'm talking about! I'll elaborate for the rest at the end, but if you look to the right side under archives, you'll see "2006" has appeared. So shall 2004, 2005, and 2007 very soon. Wendie (for me) and Andre in particular were powerful examples but, unfortunately, so am I. In fact, I'm living in a town I despise because of these self-delusions! Allow me over time to illustrate.

All of this probably wont mean much to my pathetic blob o' blogosphere. It's an egotistical waste of time to "try" to educate people. It's arrogance to believe you can intentionally instigate a Magical March to "Enlightenment." Why am I doing this then? That's a good fu****g question! It's alot of work! But, I've found my "voice"; it's just something... I... must... do. Like departing in the first place: it just must be done. That's the one thing I've written that will make artsy douchebags smile! Don't get cocky hippie; that ain't an opening.

Once I add a bit more to "2007," you'll get more of a clear understanding of what I mean by "voice." I'm not referring to the Moody Blues song The Voice or the internal compass I've repeatedly referred to. This time, I mean the message that some people feel compelled to convey. Comedians struggle to find theirs, as do radio-folk. I never quite got there consistently while behind a microphone. I had access to the ideas, passion and fire, but never had the proper, comfortable venue. It's hard to talk seriously about the illusions of life between live-reads for Bob's Used Car Palace and Connie's Fecal Art Emporium. Capiche? That voice is something I've been struggling to harness for a long time but as Herr Hesse just pointed out, my voice needed me to just let go. Again, one of those things that are likely to sound like jibberish unless you have a frame of reference.

That's been my week. How's yours been?

Tomorrow's Christmas, and I have a gift for all of you! This 100-days has ended. No more Don Quixote. No more self-delusion. The topic may come up again later of course, but now it's time to turn my head to what lies ahead, and there are some grand things! Shalain & I are going to Boise for New Year's to meet my "new" sisters, Lynette & Shelly, and my nieces and nephews. (Not sure if Dave's kids consider me an uncle... but to hell with it... I'm lumping them in!) Shelly's flying in from Ohio for the holidays, so we figured this was a ready-made opportunity to introduce everyone. Just as important to me: it's symbolically fitting! Considering what 2009 was, ending it and kicking off a new decade with Lynette & Shelly is perfect and needs to be done if at all possible. I'll write more on this after Christmas.

Is it me, or does he look like Val Kilmer c. The Doors?

After Boise, I'm literally days or weeks away from setting off again, this time for the ENTIRE YEAR 2010! Thanks to Katie, several Craigslist bargain hunters, and eliminating cigarettes, I've figured out how to budget from January thru December. Details are slow in coming, but I'm steadily zeroing in on a departure date, likely the middle of January but possibly sooner depending on how things go in Idaho.

Let me know if any unaltered f-bombs snuck through....

Honesty & Courage: Alison & Brittany

I've said many times: Beware of those who offer quotations with nothing original to add to them. Unaccompanied by some sort of personal insight, it's an implication of intellectualism; usually a lazy attempt to replace original thought with dictation. It's easier to be told what to think than to figure it out for yourself; to let others speak for you rather than speak for yourself. But, since relying on others work appears to be en vogue this week....

On display below are what I consider pinnacles of internal honesty & courage. I had been trying to figure out how to present these after finding them over the weekend. Whether to re-post them as-is or at all. Chris has, unwittingly, provided my vehicle.

After reading these, ask yourselves how Alison and Brittany, two women suddenly ejected far from sheltered, privileged, hopeful lives, would react to the notion that the benevolent Universe provides exactly what we need, all the time. Actually, you won't need to ask Alison. She tells you outright, and with emphatic brevity!

I've decided to post two of these, in the order I found them. The first is from Alison's MySpace page:


Alison say's: It is what it is...The End. Oh, One more thing. F**K cancer!

Mood: grateful


General: I enjoy being alive. I'm grateful for every day that I wake up and see my son. I think the stupidest saying ever is "Every thing happens for a reason". That is absolute f**king bullshit. It is what it is and that is it. If you don't agree you can explain to my son why he's motherless... Of course I'm not dead yet, and don't feel like punching out yet either. My game is still on.

-Alison died from breast cancer on 9/13/09; the day I was having the "dramatic" conversations with Andre in Portland.

Brittany's will take much more effort on your part, it is actually a paper that she wrote at Colorado State (I believe). It's raw. It's honest. It's personal. Considering its context, it's some of the most courageous and powerful writing I've ever read. While eloquent, it displays beautifully the difference between having a "vocabulary" and having a "voice." I'll elaborate in the following post; I want these to stand nearly alone.

FROM http://www.brittanybarzee.org/

The first story posted below is a paper that the Britster wrote for one of her college classes. The second story is something I recently came across. I wanted to share both, and even felt strongly that she wanted them shared because in her own words – as the great writer she is –recreates moments that you may not have been able to be there for, puts your mind at ease about things that may have worried you, and straight up tells you how she feels about a lot of things. I hope you enjoy reading these from Brit herself and feel a little closer to her in doing so. -Jessica Barzee

Learning to Live
by Brittany Barzee

Going to the doctor will be the death of me. I can’t think of a time not getting a panic attack in those waiting rooms for a doctor I didn’t really know. When sitting in these exam rooms, I never looked forward to sitting on the crinkly paper that moved as I shifted uncomfortably and gazed around the room at the plain looking paintings. They all have the same sterile smell, the same strange looking instruments, and the same starched white coats. With this it only seemed to get exponentially worse after a couple of unexpected hospital stays, misdiagnoses, and wrongful lectures about my fertility. This was all in about the span of only a couple of months.

And after the countless times of sticking my legs in the air, the baffled look of doctor after doctor, they finally uttered the words I knew I was going to eventually hear. As I gradually learned the gravity of the word “cancer,” doctors confined me to a hospital, the only thing they seemed to know to do. The captors kept coming in and out of my giant hospital room, the same grave looks on their faces. They stood next to the balloons, glanced around at all the flowers I never kept, cookies I never ate, and they got the scrunched brow, the limited eye contact, and the ruffling through file papers to give results. I never thought I would be told to write out a will, or live my life for “quality not quantity.” But I refused to be given an expiration date on my life, and demanded doctors grant me good bedside manners. When they spoke, it was like I was trying to swim across a river and everyone around me kept giving me things to carry to the other side, pushing me this way and that way, and still yelling at me that I could never do it, I’ll never successfully get across.

How I came to loathe those reclining hospital beds, complete with scratchy blankets and flat pillows. My vulnerability and weaknesses were visible for all who saw my file, or even entered the room. And before knowing the gravity of my “sickness,” there was a particular concern for my fertility; this was me thinking about my future, ten years ahead of me, still a goal that could be feasible. Since my doctor seemed to refuse to talk to a young female such as myself, he decided that giving my diagnosis to my family behind the large, closed doors would be best. It was when he finally walked in to speak plainly to me, I seemed to emit my uncertainty to the man we’ll call Dr. Johnson.


“Dr. Johnson, I really want to talk to you about something,” I looked up at his mustache as he cocked his head to one side. “I really want to look into having my eggs saved to be frozen, for later.”

“Brittany, I don’t think you need to worry about that right now. That’s not what you should be thinking about.”

“Well, it’s a big deal to me, and I want to look into the future, no matter what happens right now.”

He shook his head, once again dismissed my thoughts and concerns, patted my hand as if I were a child asking for candy. “That’s not in the plans right now.”

There was a second of silence, as I regrouped in front of this doctor who had seemingly sealed my fate. I refused to not be taken seriously. “Okay, well I need to do this. I don’t care. My fertility is really important to me. You need to start taking me seriously and the things I’m asking for.” And finally, he broke.

“Brittany, you don’t have time to be doing that. You have six months to live. Why would you be wanting to do that?” His raised voice freaked me out. Heaven forbid I refused to accept that statistic. “You have Stage Four cancer,” he continued, his voice revealed nothing but facts and science, statistics that gave him his nice white lab coat. There was nothing for me to do but lie there, sobbing. “Do you have $10,000 to do this procedure? You don’t have time to do that, it’s not possible.”

“But I want to. I don’t care,” maybe I was wrong to keep arguing through each sob, squinting through my tears.

“You know, you asked me to start treating you like an adult, well you need to start acting like one.”

I attempted to gather myself, then reply, “I am. I am. Handing this. Very well. All things considered. You don’t know. How this is. So don’t tell me that.” I struggled for words and assertion, but I did my best. As if I didn’t feel alone and isolated enough in my world, this man had just made it much darker. Soon after that he left, probably unconcerned with anything I had said, unaware of the fact that my nurse promptly came in and pumped me full of anxiety meds to calm me down, and pain meds to numb me up.

But not soon enough to prevent me from freaking out. My one ultimate freak out with no one in the room to see me, notice that the bus had just hit me in the face. But I must not cry, I must remain strong, for everyone else. In those cold moments after learning the truth, I came to the conclusion there is no God, no God for me. Who would leave me so alone, ask me to look death in the face without warning, or rules as to what to do. They never teach you in school what the proper answer is to “You have cancer.” There is no real response. Only silence. And people staring at you, as if they expect to see you deteriorate before their eyes.

I’m a middle child out of six kids, and I learned quickly to not rock the boat, and to simply remain unnoticed, as to not cause more stress to my Mom. The information I had learned about days before, and took in stride, was staring me in the face. A bleak future, barely a future. A week ago, I was getting ready to start just another monotonous, uneventful year of school. What’s six months from now, June? Doctors and their sciences will be the death of me.

After the tears, the shouts, the arguments, and the denial, the reality lives. Words I never thought I would hear, let alone words said to my twenty one year old ears, still seemed like words from a dream. A dream I had to live with and endure each day, without any choice or control over any of it. Chemotherapy, fentanyl drugs, pre-med steroids, and platelet levels make me uncomfortable. Just like breezy hospital gowns, IV bruises, and losing my hair. I loathed sitting in the waiting rooms full of people three times my age, and had to learn to be comfortable with the fact that people assumed I had been promiscuous and gotten cervical cancer. But until they found out that I had done nothing to warrant or contract this, doctors told me it was a complete and utter fluke, I let them live in their judgment, it wasn’t worth my time.

All I really wanted to do was go to class, be a poor college student that works in a restaurant. I wanted to smile again, let my long blonde hair down and go out with friends. When would I be allowed to joke and laugh and live life like I always did? I had been doing all the things I needed to do, was supposed to do, and should do. I talked to my mom regularly, and called my siblings on birthdays. I went out on the weekends, and always went to work on time. I blasted music and sang in my red Pontiac, and kept in contact with people from high school. I rarely wore sweats or hoodies to class, and I went to the gym a few times a week. Will I ever get that back?

Thoughts overflowed my brain, and I was powerless to get out of that hospital bed. My best friend, Megan, who had slept in the hospital bed with me the first night, and then scrounged up covers and couches for every night after that, stayed by my side even when my family drove in from Missouri. She had been my taxi driver, my cook, my confidant. She stayed through the roller coaster of emotions, observing quietly, taking in all information, and filtering it out to various others, as if she were somehow my inadvertent publicist. But she did it with grace, asked nothing in return, and I will be forever indebted to her for that. My older sister, practically my twin, sat on my bed as we attempted to make sense of what we knew. But there really was no way to fully make sense of this, so we cried.

“Brittany, I just don’t know if I can do this without you. I mean if you’re supposed to go, then we have to be okay with that, I guess,” she said through the tears.

“I know, but I’m not gonna die. I can’t. This can’t really be happening.” I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t process this information, much less fight against what everyone was telling me. Of all people, I couldn’t have my stubborn sister succumb to this fate I had been set upon. Not yet at least; I needed a wingman, someone who would laugh in their faces as I had wanted to do. And even as I replay those events over and over, I should’ve done or said a million other things.

“So, I know you like the name Charlotte if you had a girl someday, but what about a boy?” My sister asked me.

“I always liked the name Gabrielle, remember?”

I replied, we had talked about this many times.“Would you ever want me to name one of my kids after those names? I would be honored to do that.”

After giving my consent, wanting to have some part of me to go on, even just a stupid name, I rested easier knowing my sister really would keep her promise to me no matter what happened. She had offered her blood for a transfusion to me, as well as kidneys, and after the potential of my not having children of my own, to be a surrogate, if that time ever came. I needed her strength, a plan of action to make it through this chaos.

Mom tried to be just as strong, although I knew that when my eyes were closed, or she was in her hotel room, she secretly fell apart behind closed doors. As the quintessential definition of a good mother, she used to leave notes in our lunches, snacks after school, and never ending hugs. She devoted everything to me, even the simplest tasks of rubbing my back or putting lotion on my bloated legs. We all sat and watched television, read, colored, or did cross word puzzles, anything to distract and keep us busy in those long and tedious hours, trapped within the bland walls of the hospital. I learned to let my mother care and worry over me, if only to let her have the illusion of control over a small part of the disaster around me.

Eventually, I went home, back to Fort Collins which had become my home, and would remain my home through this semester. Perhaps it is because I’m stubborn, but I had to stay, had to go to school, keep some semblance of normalcy in a now unsure world. Criticism, concern, and condemnation filled my ears during every conversation, with every person in my life pointing to a road and saying “go home, one way or another, go home.” Apparently, I had to live defiant; to have control over a life that wouldn’t ever be the same. As I would sit myself upright in my hospital bed, I attempted to not reveal my shaky voice, for fear of someone who could take advantage of my uncertainty and drag me back to a place I had despised. No one had dealt with anything like this, but Megan I felt, had lived a particularly charmed life. Even my best friend, who was also consequently a roommate, disagreed. “Dude, it’s not that I don’t want you out here. Of course I want you to be out here.”

“Okay, well what do you mean?”

“I just, I don’t think you’ll have the best care out here, with us I guess.” She looked down at her hands, avoiding some eye contact, though not hard to do with the dim lights of the hospital room.

“Look, I want to stay. I need to stay. You know more than anyone how much I don’t want to go home. I mean, no I don’t think I’m a failure for going home or anything, but I just feel like staying here is where I need to be. It’s not like I won’t have doctors, and I really do have a good support group out here.” I felt like I had something to prove, once again defending my reasoning and rationale. After significant quarrels and questions, like a best friend only could reassure, Megan simply said, “Okay, I’ll respect that. And we will do our best.” We meaning her and Julie, my other roommate and a close friend, all of whom had taken on the burden of me. I guess it took me a while to realize that cancer hadn’t just struck me, just me physically, but everyone around me was also in this for the long haul. Each morning comes more realizations of the need to search for normalcy. Each morning comes trudging out of bed, feeling not just a day older, but wondering if the fight is being won. I had to get used to the mindset of needing Megan or Julie (both roommates still remained in our condo) to be there to make my food because I sure as hell couldn’t get off the couch to do it. Or they had to be there to help me rinse out my mouth, for fear of developing sores in my throat. But I didn’t know what to do when I started to seriously forget things, a sure side effect of chemo. They’d ask what I had watched on TV or what time my next doctor’s appointment was, and I honestly could not remember.

I felt foolish and elderly, helpless and burdensome. I was going outside of anything called a comfort zone, by having to give up serious amounts of pride, and learning to allow others take care of me. Mixed in with this was trying to prove to myself, and my roommates that this was the best choice to stay in Colorado. The deal remained that the day I could no longer get up the stairs to my room was the day I booked a ticket home. But I stayed kicking it in Fort Collins. I had been used to being ignored or blowing things off for fear that those around me would be annoyed with me, stop caring or basically cease to be there. No matter how childish these thoughts and ideas were, they still existed as clearly as having a time table for my life.

Perhaps it was the constant calls or text messages, or the promises of fun things to do when I was to come home, or the fact that she got jealous when my sister Jessica got to come see me, but I really missed my Mom. I wanted more than anything to curl up in her lap, as she would always allow me, no matter what age. She took such pride in being a mom, a good mom at that. But I knew that as crazy as it seemed to everyone else, I had to stay in Colorado for a while, I had to remain away, for whatever reason, perhaps just to be difficult like I knew I could be. The constant conversations with my Mom were just little reminders of how much she missed me, and also gave her more things to talk about and update the constantly questioning friends and neighbors. Sometimes, this was when I became more stoic, not wanting any detail to be spared to the always unsatisfied public. I once again closed up, even to my own Mother.

And then when the pain came back, as it inevitably does, I become even more vulnerable, powerless, and I imagined what exactly is going on inside. Maybe it’s spreading even further than my lymph nodes and abdomen and uterus. Maybe it’s dying. Maybe I am. I can never really know, and neither do the doctors. These were the days that it took everything in me to not scream and cry to the sky, and to that God that had promised me a long life, full of good things, and I had been portrayed. I wanted to just quit, check out, or take a lot of drugs to numb the pain and dull my senses. Of course, I never really followed through, but it’s more difficult than I had imagined to have virtually no choices in anything and everything. Nobody knew exactly what ran through my head, and it took many interventions for us roommates to get on the same page, learn to communicate about this messed up situation. Why would I want to share the dark dreams, the deep hurts, the deathly thoughts, when both of them already had plenty to deal with, I couldn’t keep the burden going. And especially for Megan I had to keep on a good face for her, despite our long talks at night, or the occasional crying fest, if only to protect her from the darkness that I battled.

So they’d talk about what would happen if I “kicked the can” or what would happen if I didn’t show any sign of improvement. Thankfully and not to my surprise, I did and I have made strides. Even so, I felt anxious as to not convey the depth of my pain, or the extent of my dependency on various drugs. My roommates started color coding my pill bottles to keep them straight, and served me hash browns and scrambled eggs on a regular basis, one of the few things that sounded good and didn’t make me puke. Conversations steered toward what I was able to eat and how I felt, as opposed to what we were doing that weekend or any new hot guys in classes. Instead, everything became completely and utterly predictable. It all became a prison to me. A person who had been so active, working and going to school taking 18 credits a semester, was now virtually confined, no control, no escape, no end. This was my sentence. And I had no idea what I had done to get this.

Inevitably, the calls start pouring in, the inbox fills up, and the mail man probably wonders why I’m getting tons of packages. The sympathy, the prayers, the concern, the dismay, all written on faces of people, and I still don’t know how to take it, accept it, or understand it. When I had scoffed or secretly judged people who sent me bible verses or small quotes probably taken from some desktop daily calendar, I now cried at them. Words I needed to live for, because without them, maybe I wouldn’t be able to be alive. Things I had taken for granted, no longer mattered. I cried at silly commercials, was touched when a friend sent me a text saying “I love you, and I miss you.” But always in the back of my mind was where I wondered “is it out of obligation, kindness, duty?” I could never tell.

So, I sat on the couch, memorized times for the daily shows I watched, attempted to attend classes, and shove certain thoughts out of my head. I put aside magazines, word searches, and seasons of ‘Friends’ and made sure my family knows I’m doing “just fine” each and every time I talk to any of them. But everyone reaches a breaking point, and in these long, winter days, I had finally reached some point of that. Where was God with all this? That omnipotent presence I had been searching for, for so long seemed further than ever, had ultimately abandoned me. I had already been mad at God for so long, turning my back on so many of my beliefs. This could only further broaden my divide from the divine, allow me to continue to be pissed off and silently scream at the sky to a God that affirmed how much He hated me. After being questioned and constantly interrogated about fatigue, nausea, and limping, I try to not think about how abnormal my life has become.

I still see people and think about what I wouldn’t give to be in their shoes, to have graduated from college, to live to be married and have children. How nice would it be to have a career, to be accomplished? I think of the things I had taken for granted, things I had assumed would always come my way and figured that because I’m alive I would just naturally come across these pleasures. I would give anything to look cute and well groomed, ready for a regular day, versus the no make up, rolled out of bed look I inevitably have to sport. And yet, I have to face everyday hoping I don’t get a blood clot, or try to be excited when I can get up and go to school for an hour. I still see people, and consciously try to not resent them because they aren’t supposed to go through certain things, or understand and value health, like me. I suppose this is what it took for me to learn to value my health. I’m young, I assumed I was invincible and obviously I’m not. I guess we all have to grow up sometime.

Each day, more and more leaves my body; pounds or hair, emotion or tears. Chemotherapy treatments find me sitting in lazy boy recliners, talking “shop” to other patients about shaving my head and having the right “shine” on my soon to be bald head. Along with getting to know certain nurses, I get to know what arm is best to get a blood draw, as well as trying to protest against having to take more medicines and supplements. Suddenly, the day comes where I realize I can’t keep pulling out clumps of my thick blonde hair. Everywhere I sit, a trail of hair follows, cascading down my back, though not in healthy waves but in broken up pieces, shriveled up because they couldn’t take it being attached to my head, couldn’t take the trauma. I decided to practically stop bathing, as it does virtually nothing but give me bald spots and clogs up my drain uncontrollably. I don’t do activities that cause sweat or any odor, so I get away with it fairly easily, although I could practically kill someone if only to give me the ability to run a couple miles. Fill my lungs to the fullest, and have sweat dripping from every pore and feeling like my legs would give out on me. But only if I could be normal, not the broken or damaged or defected body I have lived with. Then I realized my wardrobe consisted of sweatpants and t-shirts, and I’d have a good day if I can make it to the refrigerator by myself, despite how slumped over or how much limping is necessary.

Questions fill my head, continuously and without any real result. Maybe I should have gone back to Missouri and let my family take care of me, and perhaps my roommates really are talking bad about me behind my back, constantly analyzing my every move. Does everyone really think I’m going to die? Maybe some people have already buried me. Should I pick out a funeral playlist? Maybe it’s time to write out that will. Everyone dies. But not at twenty one. No, I can’t let myself think like that. I can’t freak out and leave everyone here because all they would do would be pissed off at me for leaving. I already know what it feels like to have that happen. I know how funerals go of those who left this life with an untimely death. Being involved in theatre and fine arts all through my life, I’d learned that family is not always blood related. And losing a member of that close knit family to a car wreck during an ice storm in January, not only put mortality in perspective, but also grieving. And even after it had been five years, there is still little closure for Jeremiah’s death since he had to be cremated; his body had been so mutilated by semi trucks after he was ejected from his car into oncoming traffic. I saw how much it hurt to lose a dear friend, I couldn’t become the next one, even over a slow period of having a deteriorating body. Is it bad that I sometimes worry that it could be me next? Is this all really mind over matter, or am I simply just stupidly optimistic, grasping at unattainable dreams and goals? I’m twenty one. Most kids my age are out having the best sex of their lives, getting wasted with trusted friends, and prepping for midterms. And while they all made plans for Spring Break, I planned for chemo treatments, and hoped that this week is more tolerable than the last.

You know, everyone says you learn to value things and learn to look at the “little things” in life when this happens. So, is that why I’m feeling nauseous with every good thing I eat and drink, or why I feel like I’m running a marathon when I try to go to Target with my roommate? Is this all to help me appreciate the leaves in my backyard, and the days when I’m feeling “normal?” Or value the art of meditation, and giving daily reports on my bodily functions? Each little thing becomes a battle to defeat, whether it’s getting out of a car, or making sure I’m not ever too far from a bathroom. I feel like I’m about seventy five years old.

The day came when I decided to shave my head. I vacationed in L.A. for a weekend with my sister and a couple of close friends. Everyone wanted to buy me things now, so the guy shaves it for free. It’s a good thing I don’t have big ears or huge lumps on my now vulnerable, but hairless melon, as my friends have come to call it. I decided I’m grateful for wigs, drugs, beaches, and not being the only one to have ever had cancer or something physically “wrong” with their body. Thank God not only for the person who invented the wheel, but the wheelchair. I may not have been able to go to the beach or even get out of an airport without it. I have to say that wheelchairs are the best kept secret to getting through long lines and security, but not without the hassle of strangers’ baffled looks wondering why the hell a girl my age, who looks well enough, should be in a wheelchair, let alone pass them in line. What they don’t see, is me trying to stand up straight, not have labored breathing and beads of sweat dripping down my forehead during my attempt to feel the same. The red purse full of medicines, masks, and other things to keep me looking foolish having a germ phobia doesn’t exactly help my case either.

As people keep calling me, checking on me to see if I’m alive, they pour in sympathy and the awkwardness of not knowing how to deal with this, not that I really blame them. I don’t need pity, I don’t need more self-help books. Normalcy is the only thing I crave because it’s the biggest thing I lack. I just lost thirty pounds on the “cancer diet,” as I call it, and I have a port sticking out of my chest that makes me look like Frankenstein. I have no use for razors anymore, as no hair grows, anywhere. My arms would say I could be a heroine addict based on all the scars and bruises that notoriously line each arm. And those people that continue to ask “what my opinion is about death” should probably go think about it for a while themselves, and then come back to me. In a world that seems to now be spinning twice as fast, it would be nice to let it slow down for a bit, not only to notice those leaves in my backyard, but for a good healthy laugh that makes my side hurt from happiness, and not pain.

-Brittany died from cervical cancer on the morning of August 7th, while I was writing about Dennis, and 10-days before I left for Devils Tower. From the Update page:

10 August 2009 - The family will receive friends tonight from 6-8pm at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; 1416 SW 19th St. Blue Springs, MO. A celebration of Brittany's life will be Tuesday at the church at 11am. The obituary was in the KC Star Sunday, and can be viewed here. Thanks for all your prayers and support.

4 August 2009 - Brittany was recently placed in the ICU at KU Med... and she wasn't really a big fan of that. SO, she has made the decision to come home under hospice care so she can get back to her bed, take a hot bath, be with her family, and play with her kitty cat.


On Brittany's website, there is a Pay Pal link to a fund for Brittany's medical expenses. If you've even considered buying these pathetic excuses for photgraphy, please give the money to her family instead. Follow the "Walk for Our Sister" link. Not a bad "gift idea" for the holiday season, and I'd encourage you to spread the URL too.

These were, obviously, powerful, seemingly random middle-of-the-night finds that struck like lightning, holding high the metaphorical mirror in which I first saw myself, then others. They literally brought me to the brink of tears; that's not easy to do! I neither effort nor claim to prop myself upon a pedestal beside Alison or Brittany. Yet, I can tell you that I admire nearly no one. I admire and on some level now consider both of these women a personal voices of conscience. They've set a new standard for inner-courage and honesty, and provided a powerful antidote to our expected "sufferance" of selfish, comfortable rationalization. I'll save the rant 'til next time.

Notice, neither of these women were "professing" some personal doctrine or philosophy nor claimed answers of any kind. They were simply being honest: first with themselves, then by extension with whoever chose to read their stuff. Their examples have conjured up feelings of both shame, quiet anger, and the unavoidable, "If they can face and share truth, what the fuck are you afraid of?" screaming in my skull. I know it's "hard!" Yet, silently asking that question has emboldened me simply due to the harsh, honest introspection I myself have, and feel I continue to display. Declarations like that won't make many superficial friends, and will likely cost (more) frivolous acquaintances. I've quietly learned not to make the cowardly assumption that this will make me an "island." Hardly! It makes one a beacon to "men" rather than feeders of a meandering flock. It's simple: at some point I expect people to man-up, or shut up. When that point arrives is in direct relation to the amount of shit spewing from the jowls!

The alternative attitude reminds me, again, of the media's mass-appeal philosophy: "The masses are asses! Appeal to the lowest common denominator to get the most listeners (friends)!" I refused then, and I vehemently refuse now. Climbing mountains and crossing deserts is courage of a secondary nature; it takes real courage to climb within.

The Big Quit

With everything I've written and said about Don Quixote and a commitment to self-honesty, an ironic thing happened. With all my scathing self-righteousness, I quickly became further disgusted with myself in one area in particular. Smoking. Specifically, the empty talk and proclamations that I was "gonna quit." "Gonna" seeming to always be the operative word, rather than "quit." Words are importa... (Shut up Andre. We get it.)

Always "gonna." When might that be? Was I waiting for C.O.P.D.? Perhaps deep down I enjoyed spending $10 for a pack in New York City? No. I even managed to convince myself upon leaving Bash Bish State Park that I just "wanted" a cigarette... after "patching-up" and going 24-hours without one. "Well, no shit you wanted one, fool! You're an addict!" With my new-found focus on "self-delusional awareness" I could now say for certain that this and every other excuse was utter bullshit. Not that it took a genius to figure it out; I still remember Chris's smug look of amusement.

The final insult to injury... literally... was in Boise, and it happened to be photographed. My 16-year old nephew, Ben, and I somehow got into a friendly wrestling match, while it's essential to stress that I did NOT lose, at the end of it all, I was on the verge of cardiac arrest! Not only was I unable to breathe, while I had him pinned on to the floor, (despite what you may hear otherwise, he WAS pinned- squirming futilely, not unlike a roped steer), I literally felt ALL of the energy in my body drain out through my feet! What the hell is that? That, and the fact that even in my emaciated state I still had him by 10-15 pounds... and struggled due to poor conditioning... was a cold smack in the face. I told Lynette or Dave, right there, (after 10-minutes of loud wheezing) that this was it. I WAS quitting. I got the same look I received from both Ben & Brad in Ohio, when I told them I'd be hitching to Boise to see them ("yeah, right!"), and I still remember Chris's smug look of continuing amusement.

When November began, so had a plan. It was time to just shut up or do it. I've tried to quit several times using the gum (nearly had a heart-attack after chomping on it for an hour... not realizing that's a no-no!) and the free-patches. The only things that have worked? Boot camp and a well-timed case of the flu. Taking cigs out of the equation. The flu immediately followed my aborted bicycle tour and for reasons similar to Ben, except detailed biking my then 190-pound ass and my 85-pound bike/ gear up Colorado mountainsides. Another story for another time, but that quit lasted for a month or two, then found me progressively smoking "one or two" more-and-more, until I finally gave up upon our return to New Mexico to play "radio" with Skippy the Super Douche.

I've regretted re-starting since that job ended, but nicotine's a motherfucker. People who have never been addicted think it's so simple, and when they say, "Just don't LIGHT them!" I wanted to inflict harm. If only it were that easy. It becomes a significant part of your psyche; part of who you are; especially after 23-years. (Yes, Einstein, I'm saying I was 6. This isn't math class; keep reading.) Even when you quit, it can be like losing a good friend, and that "urge" to smoke never really goes away although it does become manageable. It's like a mental scar; a lifelong rude reminder, and that's what the urges eventually become: persistent reminders of how powerful nicotine really is. The brain reacts in much the same way it reacts to heroin, and that's why people will continue to smoke while hooked up to ventilators, knowing full well that it WILL kill them if they don't quit. Some people would rather smoke than live. Or, perhaps it's better to say they would rather die than quit. Either way, it IS that powerful.

I knew ALL of this going in, and to my credit had been gathering weapons to add to the arsenal when/if the time came. During our time in Michigan this June, I talked with Brian about the prescription drug Chantix, since he had quit two-years before and raved about how it had worked for him, despite still living with a smoker. Having been he and Joey's roommate for nearly a year, after first working with him, I know how he loved his cigarettes! When he described how the drug works, it made sense. It simply blocks the receptors nicotine uses in the brain, while triggering a tiny stream of dopamine. Dopamine's the chemical the brain produces, in massive quantities, when you're smoke or drink (among other things.) Its effect is a sense of euphoria so addicting that lab rats will literally starve themselves to death if dopamine is an alternative to food. They would rather die than quit. Dopamine's fascinating, and there's a reason NO A.A. meeting is ever likely to be smoke-free.

Chantix may be a wonder-drug, but it is also expensive as hell! One requiring a prescription, which meant an out-of-pocket doctor's visit; the Vagabond, Inc. HMO ... is a bit thin on coverage! This is where October and these notions of self-delusion, became a powerful and ultimately continuing & essential asset. Plus, seeing the cost, playtime was over! I was forced to ask myself IF I wanted to quit at all, and if so, why I hadn't quit yet. The flimsy excuses were no longer working because I knew they were excuses. Funny thing about self-awareness: it's not always convenient. On that Tuesday 11/3, in a moment of motivation, bravado & haste, I called the office Joe had suggested and luckily got an appointment for that Friday, 11/6. That was the first big step but the smokes were far from done with me, and how clever they can be!

The next day I found a laptop of Craigslist. A brand-new HP "desktop replacement!" 4GB RAM! Upgradeable to 8GB! Dual Core Processor! Windows 7! 17" screen! It.. was... fucking... perfect! It even came with the receipt, so if I wanted a different one I could return it; the last computer I'd need for years and would cost more than $200 less than it was new! I sent an email, offering $100 less than he was asking, thinking there's NO way he'd bite. He bit. There was no way I could afford to get both the laptop AND the Chantix, so I quickly rationalized that if I spent the money on the laptop, it would force me to quit smoking on my own! THAT surely would be better for me! It would teach me something and Pfizer would get none of MY money! I quickly agreed with my inner Rationalist, and at 6pm that very evening I picked up my shiny, spiffy new laptop. It WAS perfect.

It was re-sold the next morning.

Shortly after picking it up I came to realize what I had done. I had created my own little delusion; my own special narrative. I knew damn well that if I canceled that doctor's appointment I'd still be puffing away come July... still talking about how I'm "gonna" quit. When I realized what I was doing, I literally told myself to shut the fuck up. It's a bizarre feeling to be disgusted with the outdated and antiquated voice-of-habit- in your own head! I wanted the laptop, was afraid of what it would take to actually quit, and the computer was my habitual excuse to avoid it. Simple. Disgusting. But, a glorious sight to behold from an outside perspective!

I immediately called Shalain to see if her co-worker was still looking for a computer. She quickly called back to say that Katie, the woman I had been house-sitting for, wanted one and asked me to bring it in to show her. She liked it (of course... it WAS perfect!), and that night I had recouped exactly what I had paid, losing nothing yet gaining some invaluable insight in the process... and into myself for once. That theme would continue.

I was a bit concerned about getting the prescription that Friday morning, and felt a little dirty about "asking my doctor if Chantix was right for me." I haven't been to a doctor in at least 15-years (probably much longer) and was NOT eager to take part in the drug-dealer charade. Plus, the cost was ridiculous considering what she was doing: asking & answering questions then writing a prescription. The process was painless and before I knew it I had my coveted salvation drug. I later chatted with Brian & Fast Joe (he used to work for Pfizer) saying thanks and asking more questions about the drug and its creepy "Quit taking Chantix IF..." laundry list. I laughed realizing that the drug's side-effects sounded awfully similar to nicotine withdrawal! How the fuck would you know if the drug's making you psychotic... or it's the jonesing for a smoke?!? Silly Pfizer.

The morning/ night regimen started that Friday, 11/6. You continue smoking through the first week, supposedly to let the drug build up in your system, but I noticed effects almost immediately. First, the almost metallic taste to the smoke. Plus, I was smoking like a chimney; not getting my usual buzz. That Sunday, I felt what were later seen to be my first withdrawal symptoms, despite still smoking... albeit less. The symptoms? I was a raging prick. Unpleasant? Sure. Expected? Absolutely. A general change in demeanor? Not likely. That theme would continue.

Luckily, Katie and her husband had unexpectedly needed to return to California again, so I had another week house-sitting; one that coincided perfectly with the quit. My first dosage increase was Monday, and early Tuesday I noticed (and later in the day finally identified... with an ironic laugh) more severe withdrawals. The identification was hindered, again, by the fact I was still smoking, and a bit freaked-out by the "You may go apeshit!" warnings from Pfizer! I wasn't going apeshit; I was withdrawing. The drug was obviously doing its job, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it now. Even if I chain smoked, it wouldn't matter. After I came to understand what was happening that was a HUGE help. The gun's chamber was all but empty.

The rest of the week at Katie's was calm, quiet, and boring. I played on her (what had been my) laptop most of the time, and ate. I began to count my cigs, and had gone from 12-18 down to 3-4 a day, and they were simply out of habit. A persistent habit. On Brian's advice, I signed up for the online "Get Quit" program that's part of the purchase, and as my (their) quit date approached with Friday, the fact that this was real began to set in. I knew damn well I wasn't quitting Friday, and didn't bother to try. It was as though I knew a friend was leaving, never coming back, and I wanted another day with my pal of 23-years! You may surely laugh, but I'm not kidding!

Saturday was my quit date, and after dumping the rest of my loose-leaf tobacco in the toilet with much fanfare Friday night, I did well on Saturday while somehow failing miserably at the same time. I decided to drag Shalain to go see 2012, both out of a perverse interest in seeing the world end and killing 3-hours in a place I couldn't smoke. However, the movie had sold-out. This was the day after my final dosage increase, so I was predictably menstrual. Being pissed off at the sell-out quickly escalated into just being pissed off at Santa Fe in general, then to anyone who looked in my general direction, which led onto "The Fuck It Express": smoking the final pack, which had been left at the house when I went to Katies. No one said this would be "easy" even with the drug; this was a sucker-punch in the gut to remind me.

Lighting the first cigarette on that Saturday evening was accompanied by an old, familiar, exiled and unwanted friend: shameful self-loathing and disappointment. This time however, the awareness of the delusion & the narrative went to work. I was actually able to identify something very important, and something that should serve me for a very long time: The old-habit of escaping into excuse filled self-destruction when internally things inevitably become too challenging. There were similarities between this moment and buying the computer earlier in the week: the flight instinct. This was an intensely interesting moment because it was old, even archaic THINKING at work, something I thought I had sequestered securely away, only to witness it again on full display: naked! Like picking up a cigarette was a nagging habit, so was this mental reflex. I could see it, but didn't fight to stop it. I absorbed it, felt it, and focused on what had happened and what running to that cigarette meant. I smoked that cigarette with quite a cranky scowl, and likely would have kicked a midget had one been handy.

I smoked normally the rest of Saturday night. At about 11:00, I was ready for bed and had a decision to make. By then, I'd had the time to process everything that happened throughout the course of the day and could clearly see, now, that just knowing the tobacco was at the house had given me all I needed to first fabricate, and then direct my little drama all the way from "Sold-Out" to "The Fuck It Express." Self-serving delusions? Alive & well in Santa Fe. I was right in my Quixote assessments. We will conjure up anything to fit the narrative! But realizing that and fighting them in reality is like fighting the ego: a constant battle only made possible (far from "made easy") by awareness. Knowing this, it was time to ask myself a very simple question: "Todd, are you going to keep finding excuses to smoke despite the fact that, if you do, it will kill you?" With that, the cigarettes were no longer killing me. I was. The nicotine was no longer the villainous foundation of my own self-destruction. I was. I finally owned it.

I stepped outside, had one final cigarette, and with NO fanfare then silently and alone dumped the rest of the full pouch into the fire. There was no sense of grandiose euphoria. There were no accolades or self-congratulation. I just sat there, watched the tobacco and the package symbolically burn away, and went to bed.

I haven't smoked since.

The first day, 11/15, was of course the hardest but also the most rewarding. All the ready-made excuses went out the window with the first full-day then again, and more so, with the first week. Shalain and I finally succeeded in seeing 2012 in all its apocalyptic glory on Day 1 which helped immensely, as did the unwavering support she offered throughout- despite dealing with an often-cantankerous prick. I can't overstate how important it was to have someone to talk to! Later in the week, I discovered that there were a plethora of things that kept me distracted. Writing for one. Imagine that! I managed to physically write more in that first 10-days than I had combined since February. The urges to smoke were still there but, again, I made an effort to own rather than avoid them, and it's worked. They've steadily decreased in frequency & intensity, and are now little more than pesky reminders. There was such an incredible surge in energy after a few days (when the carbon monoxide was gone), that I actually started running... and I hate running! It almost killed me the first day, but has gotten easier as my lungs and heart have been recovering. I just feel... better, and it's nice not to spend money on those things.

I know it's been only 19-days at the time of this writing. I also realize... it's been 19-fucking days! Those who know me know exactly what I mean! What's important is that the nicotine addiction is gone taking with it any real excuses to smoke. The mental scars, the reminders, will always be there to some degree. Looking back, I have the mistakes I made with my '06 quit to learn from: allowing myself the (at-first) occasional cigarette. Looking forward, it's in my hands and the decisions I make. The addiction's been contained, so there are no more excuses other than compulsiveness, self-destruction, or plain & simple stupidity.

I guess I was "gonna" quit after all. "When might that be?": November 15, 2009. This, partnered with the powerful self-assistance from these introspective "October Rants" has once again provided me with a powerful new tool in dealing with these oft-problematic Quixotisms: Self-experience making tangible an organic yet, until then, only abstract theory.

As in August, this apparent "down-time" where I often appear lost in "idle reflection" and engaged in (as Chris called it) "cave thinking" rather than seeking out adventure and treasure in far-off lands, has begun paying real dividends, beyond the imaginary, anecdotal trips to band-camp.


Oh, as for the nagging thoughts of hubris and/or arrogance? Label me what you like, but it's only hubris if I'm wrong.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Muppets: Bohemian Rhapsody @ Yahoo! Video

Here's something light to help with digestion!

Don Quixote Re-Visited

I spent a good part of October and early November rabidly questioning rather I have simply "Quixoted" my experiences and the ideas I follow, ultimately finding myself hyper-sensitive to indications that either Chris or I, ourselves, are diluted. The answers, for myself at least, were quite quick and simple: I didn't go looking for any of this. It found me. And, when I finally mustered the courage to step out, I actually foresaw myself wandering around in the desert or mountains like a wannabe Survivorman! On 5/21/08, as I stepped away from Jackson Lake State Park, I was naively thinking mostly survivalist & "becoming money-free" thoughts.

That began to silently change for good in Fort Morgan first with Richard, then Dennis and our now-infamous ride across the Rockies. I was looking for neither a ride, experience, a "lesson," or... anything. My mind was blank; I just went with it:

...I decided to ride it out, and see where it took me. Part of the journey... part of the story... blah... blah...I think I'm going to look back on that as a significant moment. We'll see.

-5/24/08: "The Road Has Always Led West"

And, see I did. The experience followed, the "lessons" became more apparent later with the benefit of perspective, and most importantly were growing organically FROM these encounters. I applied no preconceived notion to fit them within a tenuous point-of-view, in fact the P.O.V. was amended to "Work in Progress," and some of this from Day #3 will sound very familiar. It's been the consistent foundation beneath nearly every idea:

... the [awareness of] serendipity kicked in. I figured out why he picked me up, and then had a pretty good idea why I was now heading west... Again, the conversation- as with the night before with Richard- centered on finding answers within yourself rather than Pink Floyd's "someone or something to show you the way"; or Leonard Cohen's "Waiting for the Miracle": "... The idea's getting clearer.

-5/24/08: "The Road Has Always Led West"

On some level, I was immediately shown that I had been looking in the wrong direction both on the map & in my mind; I started under the wrong impression as to what this odyssey was about, or that I could even know what that was. Any credit I deserve from that point forward centers on that initial ability to depersonalize the mistake, and let the odyssey define itself, which it did almost immediately... with Richard and especially Dennis... although I wouldn't see to what extent for over a year.

“Do you want to know who you are? Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.”

That first few days was my first cold reminder of a hard-learned lesson; one savagely beaten into my own skull before I had left. All the mental masturbation I can muster is useless without the test-of-action. Action that must consist of an unattached AND unbiased scrutiny of your own actions and ideas. This is one of the few places that outside help is useful, but honest scrutiny, regardless of whom it's from, can only come through a clear lens. One of clarity, application, experience, perspective, and truth. It's applying the scientific method to yourself and it must be done without a personal, sentimental, egoistic attachment to your original thesis or, worse, your "work of art." Otherwise, why bother? Maybe a fantasy novel would better suit.

Rather than being the painter of some intellectual, rebellious "personal truth," I was suddenly struggling to hang on as the lone passenger aboard this rudderless "Raft on a River," bobbing toward "truth" without a paddle and subjugating myself to the role of the observant passenger gawking at the landscape.

All this in the first week. I wish I had put more into the writing. Talk about a mind-fuck!

Chris & I later described it as the "Sidecar," and this is where I consistently meet the most incredible people. Dennis. Cesar. Pat. Ciel. Ken. Pastor Snake. Randleman. Leslie. Joel. Don. Andre. Every single time, I've been in the passenger- state, and have long since, with a few exceptions such as Michigan, tried to remain there. At times I've succeed; at times I haven't. At its best, I am completely unaware of the process! I believe this state of just being has many names, and the one that comes to mind is that which Brian provided: Flow. It's fundamentally impossible to achieve with the ego at the wheel.

Beyond Richard & Dennis, there are other examples of unexpected twists-and-wrinkles that have guided me in directions I otherwise would have purposely avoided. The most remarkable event (confined to '08) as it turned out was this little town in North Carolina. Randleman. Home of Richard Petty. This is one of the more remarkable examples of synchronicity, and odd in that it was the final event of the summer, setting the table nicely for much of 2009. I never intended to go to Asheboro and was taken there, if you recall, by a Guatemalan who spoke little English. I thought he was taking me toward Raleigh! Asheboro (then Randleman) itself turned out to be one of those Sit Down & Shut Up moments, and through sheer unexpected chance and freewill, I found myself with these Motley Crue Christians.

I was absolutely NOT seeking out any sort of spiritual insight! On the contrary. I have an aversion to religion, and avoid their gatherings like the plague. But, this one was different, and through the process of patience, intuition, and freewill, I was handed the seeds that would sprout into some remarkably powerful insights and ideas, and broaden my applicable perspective immensely.

Help me out here if you can, but I'm struggling to see where I have subconsciously engineered this. I'm NOT that clever!

Early 2009 was much the same idea, but the theme had changed. With Chris and I traveling together, ideas were much easier to exchange and develop, but we were also mirroring each other and struggling to soothe our powerful, egoistic identities. That, in and of-itself, was the "lesson" of the east coast while, as mentioned in the previous post, June in Michigan was the culmination of decades spent battling an identity-crisis.

More importantly, June was also the most extreme "test" of my personal armor, and I was confronting frightening demons with a sword I had personally forged. That took an amount of courage that I was surprised I possessed. However, I later realized that there was something more important in-play than the risk of hurt feeling and a bruised ego: knowing. Knowing the truth about this "mythical family" so I could draw accurate conclusions; ones based on fact and battle-tested experience. Excalibur and the armor held- with the help of recognizing something more important than myself.

I believe this says much about what I believe, and my steadily intensifying-intolerance for the excuse-making relativists: Reality Escape Artists. I myself am partially responsible for the time it took to meet Shelly, Lynette, and Mike. Partially out of cowardice, rather than "act," I deferred responsibility by offering every variety of excuse explaining The Hens peculiar behavior over those 15-years, and why they kept quiet. I knew all along, but continued deferring with, "Maybe..." this. "Maybe..." that. While in Michigan, I heard many more "Maybes" from many other sources. Through a little controlled confrontation, I offered the opportunity for the Escapist View to prevail. They were dead wrong. As was I for a decade-and-a-half.

Fear, and an abdication of responsibility through victimization while conveniently clinging to Utopian hope were my greatest failings. When deferring responsibility through externalized "hope" fails and becomes a crumbling crutch, one has to attack the responsibility for examining and dealing with raw-reality themselves... or take the initiative to immediately shut the fuck up and accept what comes with submission. This may appear to be a reference to June, but in retrospect it's been something that I've applied in more situations than I was aware.

"The trouble with self-delusion, either in a person or a society, is that reality doesn't care what anybody believes, or what story they put out. Reality doesn't "spin." Reality does not have a self-image problem. Reality does not yield its workings to self-esteem management."

I violently disagree with the notion that truth is subject to the whims of your ego. Since I've returned to Santa Fe, repeatedly reflecting on these nagging ideas has pushed me over an important threshold. I am moving quickly into a room filled with a rude, abrasive bitch named Personal Responsibility, and away from the escapist fairie tale telling that "The Fates" are so preoccupied and impressed with me, that they only live to teach precious me a lesson-a-minute from their classic: The Magical Book of the Mystically Mundane. No, I suspect we're required to at least occasionally learn without intervention from The Gods.

Fate and Karma are no man's bitch, as I've said many times. They will not be "forced into action" by disguised, self-serving egoistic action, no matter how eloquently they're spun and presented. We were given freewill and the ability to make decisions regarding our instincts for a reason. Yet, if we choose to relinquish our common sense or submit to compulsions thinly veiled by an overbearing, creative ego's voodoo linguistics, succumb to a self-centered and overzealous mysticism, or ignore common sense all together? Well, this isn't a first-class safari trip. To the extreme, the consequences can be as mocking, harsh, and unforgiving as any of the other brutal laws dictated by Mother Nature. Ask Chris McCandless.

“Don't talk about what you have done or what you are going to do”

I've also finally come to terms with my growing disinterest and shrinking sympathy for the hypnotized masses and my seemingly rude, expanding unwillingness to suffer and/ or encourage repeated rationalization by the self-diluted; those who are more concerned with protecting their comfortable, contrived narrative than knowing even a taste of Cold Truth. They are the modern-day descendants of Don Quixote, and the new objects of my attention.

Often, they are the ones trying to figure out a way to impress you with their past exploits or grandiose plans for the future. I've admittedly been guilty of the latter in particular. It's as though empty, shallow anecdotes of days past or proclamations of days to come reflect on who they are today! Only the egotist needs to display who they once were or who they "will be" tomorrow. They've yet to figure out that "You" are not the road you've traveled, nor is the future guaranteed. "You" are the patch of road you occupy NOW. If they're not sharing a particular experience by request, to entertain, or as an effective comparison to what's in the present, I inevitably hear, "This one time at band camp..."

Does this mean you automatically write these folks off forever? That's up to you, but people evolve until they're dead. And, the actual work needs to be done alone in dark solitude. Beyond sharing ideas, it's useless to try to "educate" or "save" someone, and it's ego of the worst kind to believe you can, or worse: should.

To believe you're special brand of wisdom and eloquence are capable of changing a man's heart for them may be the height of arrogance, and a lust for control. None of us have the right to deprive a man's personal path from him. On the other hand, offering tools or maps, for him to decide rather or not to use, may be the height of charity, and puts the responsibility squarely where it belongs: on the individual.

Finally, there is an important distinction I want to make and be VERY clear about: I have no interest in criticizing or condescending to the man living a life of luxury- while holding no airs of righteous superiority. I can respect the most vile capitalist if he has thought about, and is genuinely happy with where he is; not pretending to be a credit to humanity or Arm of God.

At the end, the successful life is the one that was happy, content, and fulfilled. If wealth and material possessions REALLY grant you that, consider yourself a rarity & have at it. It's the hypocrites, spending all day on the corner displaying a faux-erudition and righteousness, that I refuse to stomach; the trust-fund babies preaching poverty as if on-cue while returning home to the gated community; the sex-addicted priest preaching the villainy of adultery; the naive puppet taking the touristy, guided volunteer "field trip to a poor place," then claiming they have experienced and understand famine and oppression. Fuck... you.

What we fill our own private-minds with is fascinating! As long as it's comfortable (or at least familiar), it's usually welcome. Factual? Who fucking cares! It's easier to digest! However, recognizing this, like recognizing and engaging the ego in combat, is at first difficult, then empowering! And, I don't mean the "burn your bra" brand of empowering. It can help provide a bit of mastery over your habits, emotions, and ego, as well as helping to bring into the open these little narratives we all create in our minds. In short, it's the ability to stop bullshitting yourself, and I'm finally going to use myself as the prop again!

As November began, I was starting to realize and take notice of where I still needed work on this. There are a few examples, but one that was pathetic and obvious.

Cigarettes.

Don Quixote & Other Winter Rantings

Prelude: Portions of this will look VERY familiar to a few of you; particularly those on my email list. It's a work-in-progress that, originally, began as part of the 9/19 post. I quickly retracted when I realized that this Quixote idea was going to have enormously long legs and run far... even up my own leg! Much of this was written in early- mid October. It's been edited, re-edited, and will likely change again in the near future as I add and condense ideas. When I'm relatively certain it's done, I'll add it to the link-bar at the top. While it's sure to offend some and disquiet others, as it should, it's by no means a manifesto... at least not yet!

Don Quixote is a wonderful book. If you're enjoying my little perspective on things, I highly recommend it as companion reading, for the perceptive reader! In fact, highlighting my business cards, along with this URL, is this famous Picasso painting of Quixote, Rocinante, and Sancho Panza. I chose it for 2009 to remind myself not to "go fighting windmills." In other words, fight to see things as they are; not as I would choose them to be.

If you've read Don Quixote, you know that the wisdom of following he and Sancho on ANY shortcut would be dubious at best. With that in mind, Chris and I had a short conversation in Port Townsend about the iconic Alcoholics Anonymous phrase, "Fake it to Make It." The conversation ended when I expressed a vehement disgust for the notion and it was obvious that we would have to agree to disagree. If you've read the Cervantes classic, you already know where I'm headed.

"Fake It to Make It"

I endured having this cute, infantile phrase, Fake It to Make It, beaten into my skull years ago while a young, state-ordered, A.A. apprentice. At the time, I loved it because it relieved my drunk, lazy, frightened and diluted ass of the responsibility of actually becoming the person I wanted to be. "Are you saying that if I just dressed up in pretend, mental armor and acted like that person, faked it, I would appear to myself to be so! Then, I could imagine everyone else saw me that way too! Halloween for the self-esteem!" Sweet.

It's The Don Quixote Folly: "If you want to be a knight, just act like a knight!" Fake It to Make It. Rather than making the necessary internal changes to actually "become a knight," it suggests to the desperate or lazy soul that the external & superficial acts of "dressing up" in imaginary fantasy or doctrinal costumes will result in these desired changes magically seeping in from the outside, until one day you'll supposedly wake up with an invitation to the Round Table. Taken in this context, the base idea is obscene.

I concede that it provides a useful, temporary sanctuary for those who are too (understandably) frightened or ill-equipped to confront their dragons; as long as it's presented as temporary. Unfortunately, in my experience, it's not and encourages blatant self-delusion as a watered-down substitute for authentic self-confrontation; addressing the external symptoms rather than attacking the internal cause. "You too can make rationalization work for you!"

Been there.

Playing "Make-Believe" is something we discourage children from doing at a certain young age, yet we encourage it in addicts? Odd. To my knowledge, Wendie and A.A. have never been introduced, and to be clear, the conversation Chris and I had did not involve her at all. But, after watching the daypack fly the day I left Port Townsend, combined with the entire tapestry of my experience with her, that silly "Fake It To Make It" phrase popped came to mind, and immediately reminded me of Don Quixote & Sancho!

To understand why, you first need some fundamentals.

From Chris's descriptions, I had unfairly, high expectations of Wendie from the very beginning. They have an incredibly close bond but beyond base ideology, where I expected similarities, they are nothing alike. Chris is never visibly upset and takes pride in that, externally at least, he appears to feel nothing but somatic peace, joy, & happiness. I've never seen Wendie exude any sense of calm. Yet, she is a practicing Buddhist, the dogma of meditation, forgiveness, and an inner serenity! Including our short time together in New Jersey, I've always perceived an obvious, amusing, and glaring inconsistency: A cavernous disconnect between her professed, abstract belief system and her tangible energy, vibe, and persona: an unexplained negativity channeled into non-stop, frenzied intensity. I often wanted to ask, "How's that Buddha working out for ya?" but I was entertained, and feared my health would suffer for such a query.

Arriving in Port Townsend, I had recently experienced something similar thing in Idaho, so it was still rather top-of-mind. From my own history, I'm hyper-sensitive to disguised, seeping anger and have always noticed it gently oozing from Wendie; the tension Chris warned me about? It was always just... there. The difference in Washington, I suspect, was that it had intensified due to an infringement upon Daniel's turf. I never saw it, but Wendie was probably forced to juggle and soothe much more of his polite-yet-keen annoyance with visitors than I/we were privy to. Still, I can understand having me sleep outside, but even letting her brother? For the better part of what turned out to be a month? When there's an empty couch?!? I doubt that came from Wendie, and it doesn't take Dr. Phil to phigure out phrom whence the added "tension" sprung.

Quite honestly, I' not concerned with any of the personal, internal dynamics of Casa Wendie y Daniel, nor are they my business. It's the pretense of to the-letter Progressive Pamphlet Ideology and the accompanying affection for eastern theology that piqued my interest. To be more specific, touting philosophies that claim peace, love, & contentment... while exuding quiet anxiety or anger when you laugh!

Next to baseball, people watching is my favorite spectator sport. Most of my best insights come from moments when I'm not involved in setting (like watching backpacks fly); when I can forget bantering and silently study linguistics (beyond language), as well as body language, attitude, ego indicators, tone (dominant/ submissive?), and just feel the tangible energy exchange referred to in the fictional Celestine Prophecy.

I hold no preconceived notions of "I'd like to think all people are good/ bad," so I'm not hampered by rose or shit-colored spectacles and can tell, very, very quickly, who I'm dealing with. The process begins before we even speak; with that "energy." You may laugh, but this INITIAL wordless assessment is accurate 80-90% of the time! And after engaging in or listening to a conversation? I am almost always right in the end. Call me arrogant, but it's a fact. Ask Shalain!

After intently listening and watching her, my intuition (and that's all it is) has been unwavering from the beginning: that there's something much deeper not-so-gently working Wendie. It appeared to me that (admittedly after only limited interaction) that she's likely hiding, protecting, ignoring, or coming to terms with something frighteningly powerful and that this "something" is probably old, ugly, and clawing to get out. There were similar elements in Boise, but Wendie invokes in me a disturbing resemblance to by estranged half-sister, Christine. Where exactly that familiarity comes from, I don't know.

Tectonics

With all this said, and keeping in mind the theology/ ideology, I began a long time ago to speculate if, rather than turning to REALLY face it, perhaps she had tried to find peace like so many others: "Playing with [insert deity]"; hoping to "fake it to make it;" hoping tranquility seeps in from "out there" and suffocates the beast while escaping into external agenda and the frenzied, non-stop activity to avoid the monster... in case it's not working.

Instead of allowing hard-earned, original, organic beliefs be the fruit of fearsome introspection & their unique experience, many people of all theological or ideological persuasions cloak themselves within the Jesus/ Buddha blanket, or mimic their approved "Books of Chivalry." They then stand proudly on the mountain for the world (and themselves) to see; and conveniently further conceal what still lurks beneath. It's common to read eloquent words and want to feel that they are the "magic bullet" or the "cure." Once you do, from there it's an easy step to simply place these ideas atop a dangerously active seismic foundation without first really applying the ideas internally.

This whole process is blood for my shark's nose; I can smell it miles away because I've feasted on it, and when I do I'm keenly observant and sometimes relentless in outing it... often to a fault and the end of my more shallow relationships! But, from my own experience I am comfortable declaring that The Quixote may momentarily work, but only as long as your emotional tectonics are stable and you can completely control your environment (reality?) allowing no one to mirror or challenge you, while most importantly refusing to challenge yourself. Inevitably however, once there's enough built-up stress, discomfort, or tense conflict, the core rumbles and fault lines ultimately appear... sometimes flying down the steps!

This "seismic activity," while painful, is in fact a blessing for those who have the courage to both acknowledge it then look deeply into their core. I'm convinced it's the soul kicking and screaming to be heard; refusing to be suffocated while simultaneously struggling to expose the problem. But, unidentified or ignored, it can also manifest itself in many forms, including alcoholism, drug abuse, depression, anxiety...

The Splinter in the Mind

It's quite a simple idea once you strip away plain rhetoric and agenda. You feel physical pain in your body when somethings wrong, correct? Would you trust a doctor that treated your broken bone by only numbing the area and telling you to alter how you use the limb? Hell, no! You'd demand he find the break and set it! Then you'd let it heal and move on. You'd treat the cause, allowing internal healing to relieve the pain AND renew functionality. Why then is it such an unnerving thought that we may feel psychological pain when something's off-course? And, why do we assume that it's a defect within the person, when perhaps it's culture itself that's the tormentor?

Why is that never discussed or even seriously considered, that maybe... just maybe... men were not intended to give 1/3 of their lives in exchange for what, to many, becomes a comfortable, sterile cage? Maybe the institutional hamster-wheel of "Produce-Consume-Repeat" should cause some discomfort. Perhaps those that can't deactivate that pesky nerve to numb the Splinter are actually "healthier" than the assimilated. You may disagree and that's fine, but I'd retort by asking: Why are more & more people like Wendie, in varying degrees, becoming aware of and leaving the construct behind in whatever ways they can? Chris and I, along with many others have both seen and noticed it. Let me guess... the financial "crisis?"

**Fun Fact! This general idea began as my working social-thesis (Survivorman) but seems to have shifted & dovetailed into a related theological-thesis somewhere around Randleman! My political-thesis will be short and simply titled "Fuck 'Em All."

This simplistic little analogy is obvious: Attack the cause, not the symptom. But the problem is, where it takes a specialist to set a bone, only we ourselves can be certain to locate, AND TREAT, our internal fractures. We can gather guidance & insight as to how, but with no X-Ray or standard anatomical schematic, the procedure is ours to perform with only honesty and courage as instruments.

Unfortunately, we're usually afraid to even look at the wound for fear of what we may find. So, we'll cover it up with a blanket like a child hoping that if it's concealed it will either vanish, or we'll forget it's there. To compound things, you may hear people eager to tell you, for a fee, that they have the elixir! More cultural assimilation. Or, a higher dose of escapism: You need to work harder to buy more shit! Perhaps a shot of Responsibility Relinquishment: Completely submitting to man's doctrinal version of Jesus/ Buddha/ Mohammad, Inc., thereby externalizing all good and evil! "The Devil made me do it, dad!"

Or... when they just are tired of bothering with you... "You need pharmaceuticals!"

With all the mental-flak and distractionary cover-fire, the ones who are subconsciously and violently fighting not to be lobotomized stand starkly in contrast to the masses that have docilely accepted role of numb, neutered consumer. There's a rare, third breed: those who have considered carefully and chosen their states willingly, often due to circumstances like familial concerns or even an admitted sloth! For them, comfortable consumerism may HAVE to work, and they deserve respect for at least taking responsibility for their own minds.

Many of the zombies will loudly try to convince us that they belong inside this little haven. A conversation and few well-placed questions later, the standard cliches appear. These folks illicit different reactions from me at different times, ranging from pity to disdain, depending on my mood, and I will usually disengage this brand of conversation quickly, unless I feel combative. It feels like arguing physics with Forest Gump... in Greek. Especially when the defensive egos kicks in! That's when you see the Quixote phenomenon in all its glory.

Technopoly

I am beginning to take many more of my cues from nature. I love to watch it work at both a macro and micro level, because there are stunning consistencies throughout and I believe that's how you can to some degree watch "God" work; it's as close to something tangible as we'll ever get. One of the primal laws is "Adapt or Die," and my canary-in-the-coalmine is this "Culture" blindly obliterating one of its fundamental tools for generations, choosing instead to hide beneath technology's flimsy tent, while furthering ignorance and infantile dependence with each spawning event. Meanwhile, we collectively hurdle toward Idiocracy. Think I'm wrong? Let's kill all the power for a month. Then, since no one has any real sustainable skills, we'll see another of Nature's laws go to work: "Survival of the Fittest." Scarey, aint it? We're a catastrophic power outage and ammunition supply away from becoming prey. That should speak to "technopoly" and our dependence:? we've traded comfort & convenience for self-reliance. Should we be pitied for that?

Despite my attentive ranting and beyond disgust (or pity), I'm just not generally concerned with (or for) most of them. The Zombified are content to be social & economic prey, are snoozing while fused to their La-Z-Boys, and there's no arousing the obese, content, lobotomized masses... unless there's a Doritos shortage or a new reality show for them to star in! Then, watch the fuck out! Balloon Boy and the Heene family are the perfect examples of American priorities. Rather than vilify, we should revere and honor them with a postage stamp! They're our creation AND our perfect reflection! Our Falconstein.

As for the self-professed "enlightened" ones: Even if you are "enlightened," you will NOT be heard over the cackles of the Sarah Palins or Ryan Seacrests. No social-revolution is coming. There is no "mass-intervention" capable of rendering The Biggest Loser, Dancing With the Stars, Survivor, & *cringe* American Idol impotent. Accept it, treat 'em as a spectator sport while seeking each other out and trying to remain functioning within the framework of reality. It's those who scratch at this Splinter in the Mind that are worth engaging.

Escaping Enchantment

Introspection and self-directed critical thought (Andre's 'Inner- Dialogue'), will, eventually, come naturally to a person seeking only simple truth; treating their lives like a research project rather than a role-playing game. It's generally hampered in those clinging to (identifying with) a comfortable, yet tenuous agenda or point-of-view: those desperately needing to believe they've "free the maiden." The ego prevents considering the possibility, even to themselves, that maybe they really were just attacking muledrivers. Feeling right is more important than being right. I've been guilty; all of us have. No one "wants" to feel "wrong" and in most people this tendency runs deep; well beyond ideological or theological boundaries.

It's important to just remember the simple difference between being clever & being correct, AND the clever techniques for confusing the two. If you're not simply terrorizing ancient Dutch technology, you should be able to easily prove it, with a little effort. Yet, fearing that they may actually "see the windmill" keeps most from really opening the eyes and looking...

While I understand fear, once exposed I have little tolerance for intentionally clinging to an antiquated, self-delusion. Pretending, professing, or even praying to believe something because it's an easy solution; a ready-made, convenient, external answer to your questions simply wont work for those with truly tuned-in, focused or developing sense of self and self-purpose. For those intentionally mistaking engineered consumerism or delusion for "Knight Errantry?" Point it out, then enjoy the show. It's all you can do! Some will never leave Plato's Cave and others will actually want to kill you for trying to expose their comfortable illusions. Right, Cypher?

Everything has to begin and grow from within with an unwavering focus on truth, reality, and self-honesty. And, in my opinion, it's better to read nothing- to know no philosophy- than to get lost in it by sacrificing our own personal compass; being consumed by pre-packaged doctrine while being reduced to incessantly parroting and re-enacting what amount to Quixote's Books of Chivalry. Jefferson put it best:

“He who knows nothing is closer to the truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehoods and errors.”

Or, not.





Addendum:I've learned that Wendie ended her & Daniel's co-habitation, and I feel a twinge of persistent apprehension about sharing some this, particularly (and perhaps unfairly) using her as a symbol; the same I felt surrounding Andre. However, the Quixote idea sprung from my visit there, and its nexus is important. Even on an abstract level, I think it serves as a powerful illustration as to how clever & conniving we can be with ourselves.

It took more than a month to fully grasp the scope and depth of this simple idea, and while not a comfortable process, applying it to myself has provided a most powerful tool! One becoming immediately indispensable and eventually assisting from beginning to completion in my most difficult accomplishment to date. It also helped to put to rest nagging self-doubts and set the table for the next chapter of this mini-epic... All while making me a little more less congenial! How was that even possible?!?