Skip to main content

Home

I got a text from you today. Unexpected, but completely appreciated and happily recieved. You said we hadnt talked in awhile, and I agreed. Regretably, I had allowed the matter to slip from my mind. Hell, we both did. Life happens, and we're both caught up, our noses buried deep in our respective storybooks. You told me about school, about how you were uncertain as to what path you should take. Graduation loomed over the horizon, and both graduate school and living abroad beckoned to you with equal enticement. You were hesitant to make a decision, but you can rest assured that whichever choice you pick will reap handsome dividends, solely because you are the investor. You want to move cross-country, and I cant blame you. The world is vast, inviting, unknown and captivating. A young woman of your formiddable talents will effortlessly carve out not only a niche, but a cavernous wellspring bubbling with opportunity and opulence. Here's to the future, my beloved little sister. Your's shines so blindingly brilliantly that it threatens to overtake the Sun itself. I love you.

When I left home, I selfishly and childishly expected time to halt in my absence. I departed confident that my friends would remain unchanged, the same girl would be waiting for me as she promised, and aging would gradually halt, grinding back up to speed only when my feet once again hit Northern Californian soil. Imagine my surprise when, upon my return, the landscape had altered so shockingly. Couples with foundations stretching back years had split, and people who hadnt shared more than a few mutual glances during high school were professing their love in a myriad of forms, solidifying it in the form of engagement rings. Others had fallen victim to the seductive decadence of overindulgence, narcotics, alcoholism and sex. I navigated this beleaguring new world with trepidation. My girl remained, but there was a crack in the soil that, in time, would deepen and widen into a canyon. I would fall in and spend 2 years escaping. As I left, I accepted begrudgingly that the world Id known was dead, a blanket of deceased memories. The plane took off and I groaned inwardly before I surrendered to exhaustion. Virginia beckoned, and one hell of a ride awaited.

"Home is where the heart is." My heart is splintered, fractured and cast asunder. Ive left pieces in the care of others foolishly, and abandoned other slices across the world, literally. I dont have a heart to guard my soul anymore. I simply am, pulsing and vulnerable. Any misstep could be fatal. Memento Mori. "Home is where you hang your hat." I love hats, but havent owned a hat rack, let alone a stable room, in over 4 years. What you consider absolute, unbelievable filth, my friends and I have undoubtedly considered unparalleled luxury. The obscenely, revoltingly privileged disgust me, and I enjoy breaking them at a card table. To Manny B. from LA, thank you for your donation last night. Much appreciated, now go beat your wife and suffocate on coke you worthless prick. "Home is where the anchor drops." Fitting, true, and resonating. Ive lived it, as have many others. In a masochistic way, I crave it once more. For a young man that loves nothing more than to drive down a long stretch of unknown highway in search of a whiskey scented Nirvana, such a lifestyle was both stifling and ideal. No rent, amenities paid for, and "food" free, plentiful and filling. On the other hand, being locked below decks for weeks at a time, cleaning, reading, working and doing push ups induces a type of institutionalization. I still cant handle large crowds. However, the freedom of the entire endeavor was unbelievable. At sea, even when surrounded by thousands of people, you and your soul are truly isolated. Want to talk to God or hear the yearnings of your heart inbetween beats? Sail a few hundred miles out, sit with a notepad and behold the sunset. While enraptured by the day melting away, being washed clean by a magenta cloth, witness the infant stars being born again like they are every night, emerging innocent and pure from the womb of a cerulean Heaven. Write. Forever. When you read what youd consider to be inane, meaningless scribblings, youll come face to face with your spirit in the truest sense. Fall in love with your beauty.

Ive made a home everywhere Ive gone, no conditions are unhospitable or alien to me. The frigid winter has made me appreciate the blooming embrace of heat in all of its splendor. Infernal temperatures have caused me to seek the solace of a freezing meat locker, my breath as visible as my discontent. My biggest fear as a 20 year old leaving home was that I would lose touch with all of my connections. All the unique, palpable feelings I had towards certain restaurants, coffeeshops, bookstores and venues would remain trapped there, sequestered from me by malevolent distance. I found, happily, that they simply followed me, maturing and compounding alongside me as I made my way through the world. Similar to the mind, the soul has a type of potent, remarkable plasticity. As I write this, Im at Savois, an upscale restaurant just outside of San Diego. Electropop hammers rhythmically from the ironic, yet fashionably oversized large speakers, transitioning cleanly from Eurotrash club anthems to Fusion music clearly Latin in origin. Its the kind of restaurant that used to intimidate Robert and I. We would sneak in surreptitiously and order free bread, sipping tea as we observed and studied men in suits wearing thick, imposing Rolexes, the men we aspired to be. Now we can both afford to eat at places like this indefinitely. Difference is, we dont want to, dont need to. The tea is good though, imported from Spain, heralded for the longevity it supposedly bestows after continued consumption. Either way, I drink tea like my friends drink beer, so I inhale it. This is home, and this is nowhere. Home is in your arms, in Room 114. Two Vagabonds, drifting. Here's to one hell of a homecoming.

Popular posts from this blog

Outrunning The Reaper

Outrunning The Reaper The concept of aging intimidates me.  I wont say it scares me, because I feel that I've done the very best I can at retarding, delaying, and combatting it.  My training, which in the past prioritized hypertrophy and strength, misapplied in a hilariously misinformed fashion, has altered severely.  When I first got to Hawaii in 2017, I experimented with the idea of adopting EMOM (Every Minute On the Minute) training, a methodology I'd learned from studying Crossfit.  At that point I was doing 5 sets of Freestanding Handstand Pushups a day, with each set's repetitions decreasing incrimentally, following the Recon Ron Pullup Program.  It's available for free online, and a simple Google Image search will allow one to locate the entire workout.  I would sometimes do it twice a day, and before I stopped it, I was doing around 77 Handstand Pushups a session.  Back then I fancied myself a badass for completing such a "large" amount of volume in 1

A Drunkard's Lament

              Alcohol/ Is a battle fought/ With madness wrought/ From the sadness caught/ Between a man that calms/ His hands and thoughts/ With poison that wraps its claws/ Around his watch/ Makes time pass and stop/ Whenever he slams a shot/ I have forgot-/ -ten the chasms walked/ Barefoot and half distraught/ When I've drowned in bot-/ -tles of the brownest rot-/ -gut liquor, that the damned can flaunt/ Prancing, dropped/ By the rancid vom-/ -it that crams and falls/ From the mouth of all/ The manic lost/ Ones that choose to pad their traum-/ -as with Jack and vod-/ -ka, Schnapps and all-/ -the traps of karma/ Let's get plastered, crawl the/ Line, disasters wobbling/ Pants are starting/ To tear, we're panting, heart is/ Racing, death a tragic pardon/ From the crimes of a master wrong one/ The fortune amassed is startling/ Fan your pockets/ For the change that's always last for varmints/ Alas, unvarnished/ Regrets are magic, popping/ Up wherever you're lashed and

Rosary

Rosary The time has come for honesty/ I admit I suck at boxing these/ Fighters, they're lunging, robbing me/ Of a dream that kept me up and walking free/ When my life wasn't mine, I'd thrust and pocket these/ Experiences, my trust was not the thing/ Reciprocated but my love was stalking me/ All around the world, but the lottery/ Came and went and I was stuck with all the beat/ Tickets, so I burned them and the rush it halted weak-/ Minded busted fallen dreams/ I clutched my balls and screamed/ I'm not done, don't walk on me/ As the exposure seeped/ In my bones as sleep/ Came over me/ It became my rosary/ I was quoting reams/ Of poetry/ When on the lowest brink/ I chose to keep/ Fighting and swinging, yet closure seemed/ So far away, but I rode the steep/ Waves of my internal roving needs/ The crones and leech-/   -es began to notice me/ So I'd throw a weak/ Punch and found a skull/ In my hand to hold/ Powerful/ Strength that wasn't there before, I was astoun