A Halloween Dream

I saw a dark hallway, the walls close, yet distant; a palpable night pervaded the place; its portals attended by nurses with dead eyes, their white coats cast in dim fluorescence. They bid me wordlessly onward and I did glide into the deep. My will was vapor before my curiousity. But as soon as the blackness beyond the metal gate met my eye, I wished to turn back. My heart began to flail and flutter and my stomach churned with apprehension.

My sight was dim and a rushing wind deafened my ears to all but my blood pumping. I was pulled deeper and deeper into the throat of what seemed to be a malevolent force. My hairs stood up as when you know you are being watched, but not from where. I felt the weight of a city above me, their sins and filth sliding down the floor beneath me, and I knew part of it was mine. I cried out for help, but was heard of no one. Time ticked itself to death and I knew I was alone. I slowed and was driven to me knees; dumped by whatever was carrying me. The cold stone seemed to swallow me and my heart slowed. I could hear my breaths echo as if off a wall or a presence directly in front of me, so close it made me quiver. But against all my apprehension, I reached out and felt nothing. The space was terrifying, and hungry. It drove from me all love and replaced it with crippling emptiness. I gave into despair and began to crawl. How long I crawled I do not know. Only that I crawled across the ripping cold stone until my palms bled. My tears burned cold trails down my cheeks.

And then I heard, as it were, the rushing of water. I began to claw my way to the noise, a small candle of hope began to flicker inside me. I called out to it, wanting there to be someone, something to hear me. The flowing noise got quieter as I approached. I reached out to the slight trickle to feel it. There was a rough stone wall before me and over its edge flowed a steady sheet of warm water. I became suddenly aware that my tongue was dry. No normal thirst it was. It was as a desert burning hot and dry inside me. And I made to scoop the water into my mouth as only one who is dying of thirst can. Frantically I pawed it into my mouth and then put my lips to the fountain and drank deeply for some time. All else did not matter, the glory of the drink was the only thing. It was all I had. Then, slowly, I began to taste. It was unlike any water I had before tasted. But somehow familiar; almost metallic. And then I knew it. It was not water at all. It was blood.

It ran its ponderous way down all the walls around me. I wretched, and wretched again. But nothing could cleanse me. And I was suddenly sure where I was; not in the sense that we know to be a surety of place, but I knew exactly where I was not.  

I began to shake violently. It was not a cold shiver or a fear tremble but a soul-shudder that had its roots deep inside me. I looked at my trembling hands and saw only shadow until they slowly materialized before me. I hardly recognized them, torn and blood-covered as they were. I sobbed as I stared and the deep realization came to me that I did not know who I had become. They were murderous hands. I saw them more clearly. The turning shadows my hands cast were projected onto the black stone behind them. There was light. It was a dark maroon shade coming from behind me. I wheeled and cried out when I saw the source.

A figure in a grey cloak held a grim lantern in his hand. Its slats were thin and jagged. The figure grasped it by a thorn-covered handle. The light was peculiar, unlike anything I had ever seen. But it was wonderful to see anything but darkness. I pulled myself to my feet and ran to the figure. As I approached I felt the air become colder. His hands were bone-thin and pale. And under his hood his face was weary and time worn. Great wrinkles crossed his translucent skin. I asked him to help me. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and let out a death-rattle. The sound pierced me to the core. I slunk away terrified but he followed me. His light was just enough to help me puzzle out my surroundings. He followed behind me as I began to run deeper into the place.

The hall soon opened into an enormous chamber supported by great looming square pillars. I felt that I needed to cling close to them, as the open space scared me more than the narrow hallway I was in before. I looked up and saw the pillars disappear into a black void. My instincts told me to huddle down on the floor. A reverse-vertigo took hold of me and I crawled over to the nearest pillar. I felt something move beneath my hands. I looked deep into the black surface and saw nothing. Suddenly a serene face appeared. I felt it was akin to mine own, save for the grey thinning hair. As the face got closer, it changed. The skin sloughed off in great chunks and left only a skull. I gasped as I withdrew and I saw that inside all the pillars I could see half-rotted corpses writhing in silent agony.  

I turned to find the grey man pointing towards the center of the chamber. I followed his directive. I timidly made my way to the center, half-terrified and morbidly curious as to what I would find there. A pain-wracked shriek pierced the silence. And again I hid behind the nearest pillar, despite the horrors that were contained inside.

As I looked around the side of the pillar I realized I could see my breath. I covered my mouth to hide the mist and viewed the scene of horror before me. Black insect-like creatures covered an enormous ghastly machine. They chittered and clacked over its surface. Great beasts they were, half shadow and half spiked armor. They knew their business well. They were directed by a man in white. He stood on a platform of bodies well above them. His booming voice was a language I had never heard. One by one, the insects pulled a man or woman from the nearest pillar and pushed the poor screaming soul into the machine. They were soon silenced. I did not know what the machine was, but it seemed to be a sort of reverse baptism. I could take it no longer. I wished to die or be free of the place.

So I stepped from my hiding place and the man in white snapped his head in my direction and stared at me with piercing coldness. His gaze was tangible, it felt as if he could grab my throat and snap me like a twig. My knees buckled and my hair raised. He said, "You do not belong here..." Icy tears ran into my mouth and down my neck as I ran from the place. Faster and faster I ran. Until my lungs burned and my heart was about to burst. Soon I was gliding again. I could hear the man in white laughing behind me from deep within the chamber. It was not jovial, but hateful and full spite. "You do not belong here... yet," he screamed, "leave now!"

Soon the familiar fluorescent light and white-clad nurses greeted me again. And I woke with a cold sweat.

[Keep Following. Yes, this was actually a dream I had. Also, I'm growing a mustache.]

The General Rules #7 - Finding Fire

One time I wrote this about love,
"To quantify the incalculable.
It's like a fever that rises hot in your cheeks,
before spreading to your chest and then settling
somewhere between terror and bliss."

This is at once terribly wrong and perfectly right.

For all my moments of clarity and logical profundity and clever reversals and rehearsals and recitations about love, at the end of the day I still found myself missing someone. No one in particular. Just someone. And that was the problem. I wanted someone to talk to. I mean really talk to. Someone to understand every reason behind my actions regarding "love." Someone who understood that I was only writing to save my life. This blog was the bastard child of those imagined conversations. The girls came and went and it was hard. And yet, I cannot in good conscience condemn my path up to this point. Could it have gone any different? Any better? It may be a long time before I fully understand all of the milestones on my broken road.

Only when a momentous wave of appreciation and affection finally overtook me could I see the futility, the naivety, the simple presumptuousness of my endeavor. Of all the geniuses and mentors that have gone before, how could I have possibly have been satisfied or happy with my childish conclusions about this thing called love? I vainly thought I had something to offer, or could succeed where all the better people had failed. And failed they have.

I can say this because the things they have described, with their various methods and theories and conclusions, are pale, shivering children compared with what I now feel and know. And I see my own words as hollow figures of unoriginal works. I could barely name what I observed, like a toddler just learning that there are words for the things around him. Trying to describe or quantify the ways and workings of love with those words is like doing brain surgery with a hatchet. Giving "rules" for, and building white fences around a feeling is like trying to cage lightning. Love is elemental. It is a primal force. An unchangeable law of nature. And I will no longer try to compose its abstract.

Because our tools are painfully inadequate for the task, I will stop trying to describe what I observe. This will be the last General Rules post.

But before leaving, I will share a few things that I have recently learned about love's effects and implications. Those things that are quantifiable.

Love is completely a figment of our imaginations. Lest that conjure up a negative connotation, I mean imagination in the best sense of the word. The child-like wonder and creativity and beauty, just because it existed only in your mind and nowhere else, did not make the feelings you felt while imagining any less real. It was real because it was imagined. Our senses can be deceived. They are unreliable. Perceptions rely on the compliance of others, and if love is simply a perception based on logic, it is fallible. Logic may suffice at first, until new information is presented, at which point we must throw out our line of reasoning and start over. Love may make sense on a page. It may seem logical, but it rarely is. How often do we try to anticipate it using our logic and fail miserably? Imagination on the other hand can adapt to any information. It is robust, alive, and constantly in flux. This makes it youthful. If love exists in our imagination, it will never fade. We will never get tired and "fall out of love." I for one want to keep it alive and well and I vow to make it as wonderful as I've always imagined. I realize that those could easily be the words of a deranged stalker, but the difference between being madly in love and being a creepy stalker is only a matter of degrees and semantics.

Love is a choice. Our own prophet hinted at this idea six months ago. "Choose your love. Love your choice." Some think that love is an involuntary, unconscious effect caused an unknown combination of factors. But I am here to tell you that love wants nothing to do with ethereal notions of factors that we label "causes of love." Love has nothing to do with chemistry, humor, attraction, lust, appreciation, social standing, desire (enhanced by "the game"), and thousands of other things that do not matter in the least. Initial attraction may be involuntary, but I ask what initial attraction has ever turned into a full-blown crush without constant conscious dwelling, day-dreaming, and flights of fancy? Does this initial attraction to another person cease once we enter into a monogamous marriage or relationship? Of course not. The only thing that changes is the choice. Before a devoted relationship we nurtured this attraction constantly, and after a relationship begins, we (read:most of us) choose not to indulge it any more. Thus, the initial attraction never grows into anything significant. Love is a choice, but this should not demystify it or destroy any notions of its romantic underpinning. The choice to nurture love is infinitely more romantic than attributing feelings of love to being out of our control. The notion of love being out of our control has arisen from centuries of men rationalizing their affairs to their wives. "I just couldn't help it," is an excuse, not an eternal truth. And it is not love. If love is out of our control in the beginning of a relationship, then it always remains so, and could disappear one morning without explanation. It is a weak replacement for taking responsibility. But if we constantly choose to love then it becomes romantic. It becomes undying.

I know that there is no single "right" person for everyone. I know that there is no such thing as a "soul mate." But I now can see how easily those labels would arise. Because finding someone you can truly choose to love, wholly and completely, makes you feel as if you really have found that person. Finding love simply is a matter of finding someone who you are satisfactorily compatible with. Since true, romantic love is monogamous, that makes you feel as if there is no one else who could possibly compare. Again, this does not undermine love's boundless romanticism. The romantic aspects emerge when you choose that single person to be the object of your undying affection and when you choose to exert all your effort into making that one person happy. And it is romantic that any of us find somebody to love, given the circumstances and chance encounters in our lives. That we find a compatible match in the sea of humanity around us is the biggest miracle I have ever experienced. And it is hopelessly romantic.

If love is imagined and if it's a choice, maybe we make our own soul mates.

That is what I have learned. And it has fundamentally changed me. I found her. I found fire.

[Keep Following.]

Question!

It is mankind's greatest blessing and greatest curse that every decision is easier made the second time. I find it interesting where "the world" is headed. The world is a loaded word, a generalization for men in society, white men, American men, because I can only speak for them as far as I see it, and even then, only because I am one; thus, quotation marks.

I think Chuck got it right. We are the middle children of history. We are the the fast food generation. Ours is no noble battle, no fight for some righteous cause. We have no reason to live. At least a few hundred years ago men could still be men. Back then, being a man meant chopping down trees on a homestead to literally build a life for yourself and your family. Back then, your worth as a man was decided by how well you could protect and provide for a wife and offspring. Life had purpose, even if that purpose was simply to survive.

What do men build today? What decides a man's worth? Who do we protect? For whom do we provide? What is man's purpose? Why is the white male alive in America? With the easiness of modern life, what is left to live for? What do men have to value?

I can answer these questions, my religion gives me satisfying and fulfilling answers to all of them. But what do others say? (Take this next part lightly) It seems to me that all men build today are stock portfolios and bigger bank statements and beer guts. Man lives his life in a vain pursuit of what he pictures to be contentment. And for the first time in history, society's structure allows him to get at it. It was originally called the American Dream. But this dream is turning into a nightmare, for what does the white male find at the top of the corporate ladder but another rung? He finds that once he has all the things that he thought would bring him contentment, he still feels an empty bed where contentment should be sleeping soundly.

I once went to a party at a mansion in Alpine, UT. The house was enormous. It had everything. Hardwood floors, a library, a gigantic kitchen, a pool. Literally a modern castle. The owner was some lawyer in his late 50's, divorced, and alone. I later came to learn that he invited various groups of young kids to have parties and hang out there. Other people may have seen this as "such a cool thing" and "so generous," but I left feeling bad for the guy. Here was a man who had "everything": a ridiculous car, a giant house, and a boatload of money. He also had no one to share it with. Here was a man with all the trappings of the illusory "modern contentment" who slept alone in a little corner room of a gorgeous home. I couldn't help but feel like I had been used.

We as humans value that which is the hardest to get. For most people, happiness is hardest to get because they equate happiness or contentment with ethereal numbers, notions of wealth that are assured to you by banks and investment firms. They tell you how much money you have, how much you are "worth", but all those numbers will come and go without you ever setting eyes on them. And one day, one day in the near future, all that will collapse like some laughable house of cards we've built. The banks will tell you that you have nothing. When that day comes, you may find that you have nothing left to live for, and that you have squandered your days in frivolous pursuits. You'll wish he hadn't made the same decision the second time, and the time after that. And for all you who doubt the validity of my words, rest assured, Apple is working on a new iPad. So keep working at that job you hate.

[Keep Following.]

The General Rules #6 - Timing Isn't Everything

Yes folks, here is another installment of the General Rules. These posts are about the dating and relationship world, of which I am the uncrowned king. Indeed, my vast pool of knowledge knows no bounds. At any moment in a conversation I will nonchalantly spout some unmatched wisdom about an everlasting dating principle. When this occurs, it is the job of my polo instructor, Stewart, to write down my pontification. The following comes from one such account:

Timing isn't everything. There are literally hundreds of factors that come into play when considering why one should or should not begin or continue to date someone. Timing makes up just a small part of all these factors. This list of factors is a little bit shorter than my arm. (Because I am king, no factor is beyond my reach.) I'd like to list several of the most important factors and ruminate on a few. We'll only scratch the surface of these factors simply for brevity's sake:

1. Chemistry. This might seem like a cop-out because this factor is a broad label for an extremely nuanced subject. I'm not talking about physical chemistry, that comes later. I'm talking about the unspoken chemistry. The straws you grasp at when telling friends how it feels to be around that person. The feelings and impulses that lie just out of the realm of comprehension. These feelings are like repelling magnets, for every step you take in trying to quantify why you may feel a certain way, they push a little bit further away. Trying to describe why you feel a certain way about someone and why is like trying to see an atom with your naked eye. It is there, you know it is. You can feel it. But no matter how hard or how long you stare, you will be no closer to the truth than when you started. But how you feel is so important when making a choice because these feelings are always right, even though they sometimes defy logic.

2. Ideals. Similar world views and standards contribute to feelings of similarity and closeness.

3. Humor. This is the cherry on top of chemistry; the fun in funfetti.

4. Similar socioeconomic status. Women need support. And whether or not they are willing to admit it, they will often choose a boy with more money or money potential over a boy with more chemistry, simply because their instinct tells them that he can provide for offspring.

5. Physical Attraction. This is a more influential factor for men than for women. Men are visually stimulated and  will often choose a more attractive girl over one less attractive, even if the chemistry is stronger with the latter. I don't know why this is. Social conditioning maybe. But perhaps it is because we know our offspring have a better chance of replicating if they are better looking. Or perhaps we are just horny and know we won't have the desire to reproduce with a less attractive female.

Again, these are very broad and do not begin to cover all the bases of dating factors. But even if all these factors are apparent in a relationship or potential relationship, the relationship will still sometimes fail. Even if a couple is attracted (and attractive), even if they feel all those unspoken twitterpations, even if they are in love, even if they have the same ideals and religion, even if they are hilarious together, even if they are both wealthy or both poor, relationships still fail. People still break up. Couples are still torn apart. Men and women still stay up nights thinking and sorrowing. Boys and girls still weep. And the lonely still fight constant battles against despair in the confines of the heart. This is because timing isn't everything. It is the only thing.

[Keep Following, my loyal subjects.]

In Living Is The Very Life Of Life

First, I hate it when my milk decides that it is Shaun White and ramps off the top cereal flake to land all over the counter.

That said, let me continue. My life is a constant battle. But not with anything cool. My enemies are dirt and hairs and disorder. I do epic battle with my apartment on a daily basis. Whether it's the half-full gallon of milk thrown IN THE TRASH CAN, or seemingly endless stream of errant hairs from my roommate-in-denial's head, I'm afraid I'm losing the war.

The Kitchen.
New stains appear on the floor daily from substances unknown. The pile of dishes seems to never end, constantly regenerated by some malevolent force. And no matter how many times I move them to the broken right sink so that I can wash mine in the left, they teleport magically back to the left. The microwave looks like someone deposited a wild chipmunk inside and pressed the potato preset button. Chili explosion. And I have to run the disposal every time I use the sink. I don't know what is being washed down the drain. Maybe chunks of mud. No matter how much I sweep, wipe, or throw away, it comes back the next day to thwart me again.

The Bathroom.
It's like living with an 87 year-old golden retriever with a shedding problem. Except the hairs are longer. And a dog would have better hygiene. My roommate seeks to cover his balding by keeping his hair inordinately long. He does this to great success. If you saw him on the street you would never guess his dark secret. But venture into the bathroom and a scene of madness and bloodshed would break upon you with crushing horror. He doesn't lose tiny, blonde, short guy hairs like the rest of us. He loses 3 inch brown bristles. Not to mention the hairs he intentionally shaves off his face which accumulate in that no-man's-land behind the faucet. Also the bathmat is always on the floor when I walk in, no matter how many times I hang it up after I leave. It is also magic. And no matter how much I spray with the shower head, scrub with sponges, and nag, it is there every morning like some insipid plague. All I can do is chant a chorus of "Damn it, dude!"


The Living Room.
The living room is actually fine. Soooo... yeah. It stays pretty clean. It's actually kind of nice in there.

But none of this changes the fact that my milk has major steez.

[Keep following Lords and Ladies, all.]