An Overwhelming Sense

~ Steven

There is an overwhelming sense of foreboding, fear, always mixed with a little shame.  My only way around this, my only respite is to pretend everything is fine.  To enter into that special part of my brain, that instantly takes me to my world of make believe.  But I have to come to believe with a clear and true understanding, that the world I can escape into so easily is even more dangerous than my feeling of inadequacy.  Because by being able to escape reality so very easily, I become impaired.  I do not address the problem; I pretend it away.

So why am I feeling this way?  It is because I am scared.  Scared that I am going to be a failure.  I feel stuck, unable to move forward.  This career I so desperately want to have seems like it will never materialize.  I have done so much in the last two thousand two hundred and forty-six days since I have become sober.  I graduated from university, magna cum laude, I received a master’s degree in Ethics.  Right out of graduate school I got what should have been the type of job would allow me to lay the groundwork for my career.  But that has not happened.  Instead for that last eighteen months there has been a glimpse of what we should be doing, but the gentlemen I work for does not seem to have it left in him to produce the work needed. 

Instead we have become very close friends on a truly spiritual level.  I can say with all seriousness that I have love for him as friend, in that Greek way of agape.  I see in him the qualities that I wish to possess.  It is strange he has in our conversations taken on the father figure role that I lack.  But that love so far has not helped lift me out of the morass that I now find myself.

I am well aware of why I am where I am.  That my past is like an anchor that I am unable to break free from, no matter how hard I try.  My current situation is because I am an alcoholic and drug addict, I have dug myself a hole.  My greatest fear, the thing that actually an almost soul stopping panic is maybe I have dug a hole so deep that I will never be able to climb out.

I have been looking for another job, searching, but to no avail.  When you see my resume it is no wonder.  I do not know how to explain to the people seeing it that the person on that paper, who basically only worked for two years at a time, with large gaps in between, is not the person sitting in front of them today.  I have been reborn, through my sobriety.

I need that break.  I need somebody to just give me a chance.  I am becoming increasingly scared that the opportunity I so desperately want will never come. 

The Train

~ Steven

Standing in a cramped subway car, just hoping that the train will arrive at its destination two stops away, without one of the many delays we have come to expect from our crumbling transit system.  To some Grand Central Station with its teaming pulse of humanity, is the center of the universe.  I find it annoyingly busy with way too many workers, and I mean that pejoratively, endlessly rushing about their days, thinking of how important their tasks are, not realizing how pathetic it really is, the frantic nature that possess them.  They are uncentered beings, even worse they have no will to become centered, their lives are outwardly facing, which leads to nothing.  Only by looking inward can truth be found. 

As I stand waiting for this cattle car to reach its destination, I hear the dreaded voice of the dispossessed, the homeless panderer, filter throughout the car.  “Please help, I am doing the best I can.  I almost have my construction license.  I could be robbing or stealing, but instead I am asking for help”.  Like most New Yorkers, I lower my head and at all costs do not make eye contact. On my feet I see my Belgian slippers, if you know you know.  Jeans from my favorite company, imported from the Anatolian heartland.  A bespoke oxford shirt, bespoke for you heathens out there means I had it made from scratch by Carl at CEGO.  A regular Polo cardigan and a Barbour coat, not one of the new coats they make for the uninitiated, but a true shooting jacket.  To top it all off I am carrying a beautiful leather bag that was made in an artisanal workshop in the southwest of France.   

As I stand there, an embodiment of success and listen to this vagabond speak I am struck by his words.  The humiliation that he feels having to ask every stranger he meets for a handout.  You can hear the dejectedness in his voice.  He tells us of how hard being a good man is when one is living on the street, always thirsty and always hungry.  He says he does not need cash only our loose change.  It is pitiable.  But it is that pity I feel which makes me think of how I should act.  How as a Christian my lord and savior commands me to act to those most in need.  How this man could be an angel sent to test us, how this man could be Christ himself, for he is always with the least amongst us.   

My Christian heart was opening for this man.  I know this man, not personally but I know this type of man, I was that man.  The shame and pain of having nowhere to go is something I know.  The dejected nature of being the unwanted and pitiable was a feeling of which I had intimate knowledge.  But even with both sympathy and empathy, I still was having a problem doing the next right thing.  I stood frozen for a minute while the train was pulling into the 59th street station.  I quietly and surreptitiously remove cash from my pocket.  As I step off the train, to allow the other passengers to get off, before I get back on a thankfully less crowded train.  I reach out and hand the man the money.  He takes it says thank you and then looks closer, seeing the denomination, looks me in the eyes with a furtive glance and says “thank you very much, thank you”.   

The woman whom I was standing next to looked at me quizzically.  Within that look was contained the question, “Why would you have just given that man money?  You are just compounding the problem by giving him a handout”.  I thought for a second I saw an expression of approval, but that is rarely the case.  Part of me wanted to scream out at her asking if she was a compassionate human being?  Asking her if in the other she saw herself, the human being that is present in all of us, regardless of race, creed, or socioeconomic status?  I wanted to hell her that could have been her or I.  I wanted her to know that not so long ago that man was me, but for the grace of God there go I.  But I said nothing.  For the shame and fear of that time still lingers.  I hide it very well, beneath the exterior of my success.   

Very Off Topic

~ Steven

What is my raison d’etre??  Besides to show off how fancy I am, using French phrases that try to convey to you my audience that I can speak French.  I cannot speak French.  If you dropped me in the French countryside I would be able to make it back to safety.  I cannot speak French, beyond some words and phrases, which I have somehow been able to retain from the fourteen years I was forced to take the language. 

For complete honesty and clarity, because a relationship without honesty is no relationship at all, to you my audience, I actually do not think I have an audience.  According to a widget or plugin, I am unclear as to which one is which or what they are or do, but this one tells me that there has been a grand total of 74 views.  Now for even more transparency 34 of those page views were over one or two days.  The people, according to the widget, who were viewing this site were French.  So it was probably Russian hackers, gooey bear or cuddle bear, I am unclear of what type of bear they are.  But if they are out there trying to hack this website, I am telling you it is not remotely worth your time.

So If you are cyber super criminal who likes what I write, why not help me somehow manufacture users and views.  That way I can convince some publisher, magazine, or basically anybody, that people like what I write so I can get paid.  I have a wife and child to support, FFS.

OK, so the next post will be about my plan, the reason d’etre.  It is a five-year plan, so at least me and Stalin have that in common. 

Happiness at the Beach

~ Steven

I have not been writing at all for myself lately.  It is not out of complete laziness, but that might be a reason because it is always lurking in my subconscious. But I think I have two very good reasons.  Firstly, I have been writing for my boss which is a nice change of pace.  Secondly, the kind generous man I work for gave me almost the last three weeks of the summer off.  It was absolutely glorious.  I reveled in the freedom.  It was a time for family, something that I love and cherish more than anything in the world.  I never remember having this type of time with my own father, but my dad faults and all, was as great as he could be.  He was a loving caring man.

So for those twenty days I was in complete bliss.  My wife and I took our son to the beach. It was a risk, because he hated the sand last time we were there.  It was so funny to watch.  We would place him in the sand, he would squirm and wriggle, pulling his feet up as if the sand was some sort lava.  All I can think of is that stupid internet meme about the floor being lava.  The same would happen if we tried to place him on the grass. 

While it was funny to watch it was incredibly practical.  We could put him on the beach blanket and not have to worry about him wandering off.  He would just sit there playing with his bucket, mumbling to himself as all babies do, while seeing how much sand he could get into his mouth via his yellow shovel.  It also worked on the grass.  My mother’s patio is made of blue stone, with grass surrounding it.  So we could place our son on the patio and let him roam free because the lawn served as our containment field. 

But no more, our son is fully mobile, adventurous, and most importantly fearless.  I am unsure if fearless is the correct word.  I think he is better described as someone who does not understand the consequences of his actions.  That is our greatest fear as parents.  We have seen him try and jump down stairs or throw himself, at a full run, into the pool.  With more thought, he is fearless.  He has no concept of fear, until he has in that decisive moment realized he is scared.  You can see the worry manifest itself on his face in that instant he has realized that he has done something and is scared of the consequences. 

          So to make a long story short, he loves the sand now as well as the grass. 

Back to the magic of the vacation.  There was something so satisfying, so rewarding, I felt becalmed in my soul.  It was as if nirvana had been reached.  A mystical and religious experience.  I was not praying or meditating.  I was actually doing nothing.  I was sitting.  Just watching.  I was on one of those beach chairs, the folding variety, watching my wife paly with our son. 

The chair is important.  People forget how important a chair is, how much better it makes your life.  Most people though, have no reference for life without chairs.  We have always just had chairs in our life.  Now I am not claiming to have lived some type of feral life devoid of basic human amenities.  For even when I was feral, there were still chairs, benches to be more exact, but they fulfilled the same type of role.

The role is something we or least I very rarely think about.  It was not until I was without a chair that I realized the beauty of its function.  It is something to sit on, it raises you from the ground.  It helps keep you dry and clean.  There is also a level of comfort that chair brings to the user.  These things that make chairs great, are overlooked. 

The problem is that only the fewest number of people do not have access to the amazingness of the chair.  So there was a time I was chair less.  It was when I was paid to chaperone one of my best friend’s little brother to a Phish festival.  Needless to say it sucked.  Not having a chair was just fucking miserable.  I am going to take a break from writing, while I decide if I am going to tell you about that both amazing and miserable time I was chair less.

So I have thought about telling you about one of the best and worst times I have ever had.  I have decided against it; the hedonistic adventure has no place in the current idea.  It is something that must be writing separately.

So I had to remember what I was really trying to say before.  When I realized what I was writing about, the joy and happiness of watching my wife and child play together on a beach.  I was immediately transported back to that amazing feeling of happiness.  So what I have been trying to say over the last several pages is how happy I am.  There is a sense of contentment that I have found within this whirl wind of doubt that surrounds my life.  Watching my wife and child digging and playing in a hole on the sea shore brought me a feeling of satisfaction, that only a parent would be able to understand.  I felt as if I had chosen well.  That my wife whom I love with all my heart, who is my best friend, my confidant, my cheerleader, my lover, is also the greatest and loving mother.

There is a satisfaction being able to know your life partner, the person who you have chosen as your ride or die, is everything you could have imagined.  Parenting is a whole new level of interaction.  I feel it is something that can go either way.  It can reveal the true person, the whole person, the person we wish to keep just ourselves devoid of the light.  With my wife it has allowed me to the depth of her ability to love.  Her unending ability to love, is the most beautiful part of her.   

Kindness of the Present and the Fear of the Future

~ Steven

I am in a bit of a conundrum. It is a very strange place to be, inside of a conundrum. I work for a very kind and thoughtful man. He and I get along and see eye to eye on most things. If we actually harnessed or intellects towards the infamous project, he hired me to undertake over a year ago we would produce work that was insightful and fun. But we do nothing.  It seems as almost that he has shot his last shot and does not want to rejoin the battle. I am left with two choices: keep muddling along collecting my check, hoping that one-day inspiration will find him or to leave without a completed project. The thing is I want to do neither. I want to throw myself into our book, but without my employer’s engagement there is really no point. This project was supposed to be foundational for me in my career. So far it is a yoke, a light burden with a kind man but a yoke nonetheless.   

There are times as I try and a find a way to take my next step career wise, that I am overwhelmed with fear and despair.  It becomes hard at times for me to stay in the moment, to not retreat into some alternate reality that I can so easily create in my mind.  But the fear and anxiety are palpable, I can feel them in the pit of my stomach.  What they breed is uncertainty of the future. 

Husband and Father?

~ Steven

Is being a good husband and father mean subordinating yourself to the good of the family as a unit, always?  It seems to me, an expert on neither being a father or husband, that to be the best on both fronts is to truly give yourself to each.  To totally lose yourself in the perfection of the things that makes one a better husband and a better father.  But for me there arises a contradiction.  If there are times that I choose myself over being a husband or a father, am I now not being a good husband or father?  The answer is simple by choosing to participate in an activity or do something for myself, I am not being the best husband or father that I can be!!  But this is not set in stone. 

The surety of that previous statement is only ephemeral in its nature.  Because we are made up of at least two spheres.  These spheres occupy our minds and create the whole that is our personhood.  So my other sphere speaks up, it is the side that does not anchor itself in the concreteness of reality.  This sphere or part of my mind, which is always swirling with thoughts of doubts, fear, and what I believe are truths, feels that I need to be an individual to be the best father and husband that I can be.  It has been a slow day at the office and I think way too much.

Is There A Point?

~ Steven

Is there a point?  I do not know.  I hope there is a point.  It would be horrible if there was no point to all of this.  Pointlessness would mean that we should just stop!  Stop what? Everything!!  It would mean we are just animals living on a rock floating around amongst billions of other solar systems.  That our existence is meaningless.  That our existence is not the unique and focal point we actually think it is.  That as animals we have no attachment beyond our familial relations.  What keeps us then tethered to our daily routines?  Why do we not just descend into a true animal kingdom, like a scene from the African savannah?

It is because we believe in something greater than our little lives.  It is this belief that helps focus our minds when we become distracted.  The thoughts of living a hedonistic life are what we must be on the watch for.  I am not talking about orgies and drugs, not a Roman or Greek idea of bacchanalian adventure, but the pleasure seeking me first attitude that so many people seem to be embracing today.  They seem to think or only want things for themselves.  As we become more progressive, not in our social thought, but in our ability to bring ourselves into a supposedly better future we seem to have become entirely self-centered.

There is a pseudo movement to think of the other, but this idea of helping others only falls into a narrow band of how the so-called progressive thinks things should be.  Outside thought that stands even slightly in contrast to the “progressive” is to be crushed.  People must be made to conform at all costs.  Debate is now only allowed in so far as a measure of progressiveness.  The left is as dangerous as the right in taking away our freedoms.  A new middle must be charted.    

Lost Looking Outward

~ Steven

 I have been searching for something.  It took me thirty-five years to actually figure out what I have been looking for, quietness.  I still have not found it.  This quietness is not the normal quietness; I do not want to sit alone in a room, the ascetic life is not something for my reality.  I want to quiet my body and its physicalness.  The senses connect us to this world.  So to disconnect from our disordered modernity, the senses must be conquered, if but only for minutes.  Detached from the senses one has a chance to feel the internal quietness that we all should be seeking. 

Even though I have not found it yet, identifying what one is looking for is essential to progress on a journey.  But it was not until my thirty-fifth year that I realized to find what I am looking for, I must turn inward.  For decades I was looking outward in vain.  This idea of an inward turn is what is most difficult.  The outside world, with all of its distractions energizes your senses at a rate that would be unfathomable to our predecessors. 

Today the world is interconnected.  At any moment in time we are able to look to our small mobile phones, and know what is happening in the farthest corner of the globe.  We are able to communicate instantaneously with anyone we choose.  The interconnectedness of our age is something that constantly draws us outside of ourselves.  The orientation outward away from ourselves distracts us from the interiority that calms the soul.  An external positioning is not in and of itself in error, because much good comes from the interconnectedness allowed through our innovations.  They connect us to our loved ones, they allow us to work from almost anywhere, unchaining us from our desks.  A person needs one of these if they wish to thrive in our new global market.  To use these devices well though we need to be able to discriminate.    

This type of temporal instantness, is what takes us out of ourselves, it makes us feel as if to be truly people in our so much championed digital age, we must be engaged always with the outside world.  There can be nothing more false than that belief.  To truly be engaged with the world around us, we must first turn our gaze inward and prepare our souls for engagement with the outside world.  How this is done I do not know.  But the most important part of a journey is to know your destination.  I know my destination and my journey has been commenced. 

So I Just Bought a New Pen

~ Steven

So I just bought a new pen. Why is this important? Because it is not just any pen. I bought a German fountain pen made by a company called Graf von Faber-Castell. This purchase was something I had been aspiring to make for months. I felt I needed the right pen to write. I was correct, this shiny silver pen, made me write this.

After my purchase I went to go see Lila. Lila is a friend of my wife’s and an amazing Chiropractor. So as I was laying there on this amazing stretchy table, that hypnotically goes up and down, bending like a drawbridge, loosening up your back for the eventual crack. That cracking sound for me carries with it the promise of relief. Which is just a fleeting moment of no pain. As I waited for my reward, I wondered to myself, because the only person I wonder to is myself. Which is a shame, because there are times that I wish I had somebody else to wonder aloud to. It was only last month that I admitted to my wife that I tell myself elaborate stories. These stories have been a staple of my life since I can remember.

When I say stories I mean ongoing narratives that span months and in some cases even years.  They contain continuous plots and characters, along with my hopes and fears, my dreams of a better tomorrow, or the ability to rewrite the past.  For some reason it is where I feel most comfortable.  My mind is for the most part a safe place for me.  There are times when that is not the case, where my mind is dangerous and dark, but it has not been that way for a while now.  Though I know the darkness and fear is always lurking, trying to return.  There are times I wish it would, I want to explore it, like a caged animal, not release it, but come to know it better.  My mind had moments where it worked so much better and faster with the darkness.  But also there with the darkness, were times when my mind had trouble distinguishing which reality it occupied, those where the extra fun days.    

Quickly, my wife has never since that day, when I told her I live partly in a land of make believe, mentioned it or brought it up.  I assume that she does not even remember I said anything, which is strange because it seems like something a wife would or should remember. It seems like type of thing one would make a mental note of when they heard it uttered.  Maybe she is just not interested.  Even though I think it is something she would wish to speak to her husband about!  I would certainly paint a different picture of my pastime than I did above if she did ask, I would not want to alarm her.  I do not think there is anything to be alarmed about, but nonetheless I would invent a new reality.  But I digress.

What I was thinking of while prostrate on Lila’s table was about my new pen.  I love having a new pen, it makes me feel like a writer.  I feel as if I am a true professional.  But as I write more and more with this fine piece of German craftsmanship I think I might want a finer nib.  Maybe I am not a medium nib kind of guy.  It seems too large, too sloppy, maybe this moleskin notebook just has crappy paper.  Maybe I need to buy a notebook of expensive paper?  It could be that my fancy new German, pen needs fancy German paper.  The medium for recording my thoughts is important, even though my thoughts are only important to me, well at least sometimes they are important.  Other times they are nonsense.   

That thought though which has spawned the previous prattling needs to be asked.  Does a pen make a writer?  Or does a writer make a pen?  I do not think that a writer can be a writer and use anything other than pen and paper.  I assume I am wildly mistaken in that belief, but I choose to believe it anyway.  I know from my limited experience that all books or articles end up on a computer, but I think the beginning must be found where paper and ink meet.  It just seems more natural to me, like the proper way nature intended writers to write.  But like most of my pontificating it is not based on facts, or anything that is outside of my reality, because I have never written anything of substance.  Not that I do not write things, but nobody has ever published anything or nobody has even ever expressed interest in or asked me to write for money.  Except my boss he is paying me to help him write some articles and a book but we have not written anything so I am unclear if that qualifies as classifying someone as a writer.