Skip to main content

Structure To Chaos

Ray Bradbury, the great Science Fiction author, describes the act and art of Writing as something to get drunk on daily, and, counterintuitive as it may seem, to remain inebriated on as long as possible. He urges us to immerse ourselves in an hour of Writing a day at minimum, in order to stave off the fatal effects of the harsh world we're forced to inhabit. If we are to remain untouched, pure and virginal, then we must treat our devotion to our own eclectic and unique arts not as passing fancies or wispy interests, but instead declare our partaking and participating in them as essential to our daily lives as breathing and drinking water.

As I pen this, Christmas music, festive and jovial, dances gracefully through the air, surfing the radio waves with the proficiency of Duke Kahanamoku himself, which is perhaps the more fitting aphorism upon reflection. Surfer' s Coffee Bar, by far the greatest coffeehouse on Oahu, is owned and staffed entirely by dedicated Missionaries. Toiling away for no pay, yet rewarded with free room and board, a seamless transition into Hawaiian culture, and an endless bombardment of stunning foriegn women laboring alongside them, simply observing an hour of their lives is a potent experience, one that has me questioning the logic of my career path.

She got up and left. On Return Of Kings, Troy Francis lobbies us all together momentarily to lambast and admonish us for temporarily forgetting that we possess two working testicles when presented with a veritable Goddess. The Navy has taught me to be a shrewd judge of a Woman's ethnicity and nationality, and given the fruits of my travels and the accompanying trials, I'd like to think Ive grown pretty damn good at it. I frequent this place quite often, repititiously enough that Im on a first name basis with the majority of the staff. For this, I'm 100% certain with terrible clarity that Ive never beheld her beauty before. Israeli, around 5'4", athletic, with a slim waist, a ballerina's delectable legs, pert breasts and, my eternal kryptonite, a firm, thick ass, it's an understatement to declare that Im instantaneously smitten. Long, russet hair, buoyant and bobbing with the echoes of her hypnotizing giggling, frames a petite, cherubic face, dominated by wide, forest green eyes, a picturesque horizon capped with two astonishingly luminescent moons. Im captivated.

In the opening chapters of The Game, the seminal work by Style, or as the world at large knows him, Neil Strauss, the inimitable, eternal Mystery, caught in the throes of suicidal depression and overbearing angst, is coerced into a hospital by Style, his protege and greatest pupil. While being evaluated by an attractive Asian woman, Mystery laments that, had they met under different circumstances, he would have certainly made her his. She laughed, humoring him with a clinical detachment as Neil notes, and continues on with her work. Of course, the great Erik Von Markovik recovers, like all DemiGods do, and plows forward to inspire untold legions of aspiring Venusian Artists, a term Ive always prized over the more mainstream Pick Up Artist. The latter denotes sleaziness and elicits a lack of trust in Women, communicating to them that the practitioner of the Art of Seduction is only interested in the endgame. Obviously this is sex, and there's nothing wrong with it. It's the irrefutable, uncompromising Law of Nature that all male/female interaction is driven by carnal desire and sensual undertones. But in my view, Venusian Artistry shifts the focus away from tactics, tricks, routines and plans, and instead shines light on the glorious nature of the fairer sex. What a Feminist infested and Leftist dominated society degraded into a hideous struggle and perpetually locked wrestling match between the sexes is instead soothed and returned to its natural rhythm, the age old dance of Seduction. It's the difference between a Social Robot frantically attempting to remember his routine stack infield and a Natural Lover, a la Robert Greene, wooing the delectable maiden he's drawn to by some ancient primordial passion with little more than a stray glance held to the height of mutually pleasurable tension and a few choice words whispered before a breathless kiss is exchanged. This is what I needed to rediscover, this Truth. That if even the incredible Mystery, Father of Pick Up, falters and soldiers on to conquer new heights, then surely I can weather any storm that may befall me.

I didn't get her number, in case you were wondering. We did match gazes though. I smiled, she reciprocated, her angelic face awash in vigor. In earlier days, I would've acted with little regard for social convention, unimpaired by the calamitous fear of rejection plaguing the average person. I would've approached unabashedly and arrogantly, with just the right amount of personal vulnerability as taught by Mark Manson. I still capture that aura, in increasing quantities in fact, while practicing the Art that bonds us in Brotherhood, from Lithuania to Los Angeles. The magic that literally rescued me from a life of inconsequential mundanity and pathetic ignominy. But, I am no longer that innocent, crystalline 18 year old with the fresh, unrestrained heart. Ive endured the dissolution of true love due to suddenly insurmountable distance, lost a few too many friends to bullets and bottles, inflicted great bodily pain on the undeserving and unrepentant, and endured the slicing and severing of the remainder of my heartstrings in the aftermath of a horrific miscarriage. I've weathered my storms and clung to the last vestiges of my shattered hope as my sanity and humanity capsized in the midst of seemingly unbearable maladies. Yet, here I am, standing on my own, shaky but secure in the strength of the Lord.

The glimmer of spirit has begun to flicker once more in the once hollow recesses of my beleaguered irises. Writing, training and reading are my trusted companions and unbreakable weapons, assisting me daily in this trek we call life. Prayer bolsters me with grace and God's favor, granting me the fuel to thrive in the wastes of our world. Thank God for our Haven. 

Popular posts from this blog

My Story Of Sexual Abuse

For J. Find peace.



The first time it happened was around the end of 1999. My Mom and my Aunt were busy prepping everything for the holidays, and my older cousin begged to babysit me. Looking back, though there was nothing that indicated what he would do to me, I now find it odd that he showed so much extra attention towards me. In the days prior, when all of the kids played whatever trivial games we dreamed up, he would go out of his way to ruin my fun. I remember one instance where we were playing Heads Up 7-Up or something similar, and though my head was down, he stopped the game and said that I was peeking at the other players, something banned by the rules. "No I didnt!", I protested. "Yeah you did, I seen you!", he'd reply mockingly. My two front teeth stuck out prominently due to a mix of bad genetics and awkward dental work, and I told one of my other cousins, in jest, that I'd gladly trade my teeth for hers. We laughed, until I heard him behind us.…

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…

The Desert

The Desert



Dry air in a normally humid climate is not conducive to a strong immune system. The shock is sudden and violent on an unseen level, I'm sure.

I never thought I'd suffer from stifling congestion and repetitious fits of coughing while stationed in Hawaii, but I was proven wrong recently.

As I pen this, my throat, though healed and no longer reacting in an incendiary manner when forced to swallow, is as arid and barren as the Mojave.

My chest is harboring a veritable barricade of mucus, and each pill I pop, in hues of rose red, ocean blue and grass green, chip away at bricks of the stubborn, phlegmatic stowaways.

My nose is on the brink of suicide, and breathing in coats each gust of air with a Welcome Aboard package of sandpaper and gravel.

In short, I'm fucked.

Yesterday I spent half the evening limping around wincing, my side cramped by an invisible knife, present and piercing, jostling with each aching step.

Save for a few meandering sets and reps performed to…