Category: Autobiographical

There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?
You can just visit, but I plan to stay.
I’m going to go back there someday.
I’m going to go back there someday.

Gonzo, “I’m Going to Go Back There Someday”

—

This song has stayed with me over the last few weeks; I came across it while creating a lullaby CD for NE’s littles. Like all mixes, I listen to the playlist several times, removing a song here, adding another.

And this song, the one sung by a purple muppet sitting at a campfire, gets to me. Every time I hear it.

Sitting in the lobby of a small hotel in Bruges, I think of my friends. The close ones, the ones that mean something to me, that help define my life. The old friends I have met.

And the others I have yet to see.

After 24 hours of labor, NE and Bear brought two new beautiful babies into the world.

Although they are both fat and healthy, they look tiny when I’m holding them in my arms.

Today is a fantastic day.

And now I need some sleep.

We share a stasis of sorts; a lethargy of motion. We are not meant to be standing still, and because of this, we feel it as a relentless
stirring as life brushes past us.

Unfortunately, it is not moving that is required. It is movement under the right motivation.

A dilemma, if you will: what to do when the act that began as a new challenge becomes routine? Aside from the obvious answers (approaching said challenge from new angles, finding some aspect that is exciting to re-engage interest, etc.), all of which are designed to prolong, but not ultimately fix, the issue.

Let me be honest. I do not think there is a fix. I am simply not content to be content.

Because, at heart, I require challenges in my life. When dealing with challenges, stress is applied, the ligaments of life are stretched and I am forced to react, to fight, to bare my teeth and be more than a stationary object.

Given one role, should it be so easy to face it forward? Should we write fiction to mirror what we want in life, or live our lives like the fiction we want to write?

It’s official; I’ll be heading to Europe in late October, hitting six countries in fifteen days.

On the one hand, I’ll get to experience several cultures and hit the highlights at each location; on the other hand, two days in Paris is no way to enjoy the place.

Of course, if I fall in love with one particular country, I can always return.

If there is anyone who lives in (or near) London, Bruges, Amsterdam, Paris, Innerlaken, or Rome, who would like to meet up for drinks while I’m over there, just let me know (I’ll be staying at the Four Seasons King George while in Paris, and they must have a kick ass bar there).

My nephew just had his first birthday.

Last week I stood on the balcony of a beach house with my nephew in my arms, his small fingers wrapped around the slender silver chain around my neck.

I rested my head against his and was startled by just how blue his eyes were.

I began to count back the seconds, minutes, and days, trying to remember a time before the inertia of life had carried me past the point of owning such beautiful potential, when the grace of innocence allowed uncompromised belief.

I couldn’t remember that far back.

To lucid dream, you have to find the signposts in your dreams that will let you know you are sleeping. They are indications that what you are experiencing is a dream. It could be a digital clock that changes time when you look away, or it could be a cell-phone the size of a hardback book that you’re speaking into.

But once you know you are dreaming, you can take control of the dream.

For someone who enjoys control, I am having a remarkably hard time with lucid dreams.

The problem is, I’m not the central character in most of my dreams. My dreams play out in stories.

Intricate, sometimes amusing, often slightly frightening, stories. And since I’m often not in these stories in any active sense, it is difficult to find the signs that would allow me to realize I am dreaming.

—

And now for some random notes that are absolutely unrelated to dreams, lucid or otherwise:

• My youngest brother has asked me to officiate his wedding next year. It appears that I will, after all, be getting ordained (not a particularly hard endeavor these days). Once it’s official, I’ll start taking confessions and passing out penance. The line forms to the left, please.
• A couple of weeks ago, I crashed my motorcycle taking a turn a little too quickly. It left me bruised and aching in parts I didn’t know existed. But mostly in one piece. I’m now deciding on what my next bike will be.
• My Europe trip looks like it will be set for late October. Amsterdam coffee shops, Paris cabaret and operas, West End shows, and Bruges chocolatiers are all on the itinerary.

This autumn, I am going to Europe.

Over ten years ago, I visited Ireland. I wasn’t long out of college, had few attachments other then the friends I went with, and the week we spent roaming the Irish countryside with a map and a rough plan was an important one.

The week was filled with interesting memories: The first ‘castle’ we found was smaller then the place I live in now; on a road along the Dingle peninsula, we defied the laws of physics by passing between sleeping sheep on one side and a large tour bus on the other – on a road I swear wasn’t more than a few feet larger then the car we were driving in; the last night we were there, we feasted in Bunratty castle, drinking mead served by wenches and accompanied by good music.

It was a hell of a great trip.

This fall I’m heading back overseas; not to Ireland this time – but London, Paris, Rome, Venice, Interlaken, and Amsterdam. It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, but I plan to make the most of it.

I was reading David Foster Wallace’s Kenyon commencement speech (found here) and got to the part where he speaks about avoiding the dangers of close-minded thinking.

‘Not a problem for me,’ I told myself, ‘I’m one of the most open-minded people I know.’

Which is well and good, except…except I realize the danger of believing in one’s own rhetoric. Even if I am as open minded as I believe I am, that doesn’t mean I don’t participate in my share of wrong-thinking. There is a difference between liberal sensibilities and having a progressive and expansive view of the world.

And because I refuse to let such ideas go, I began looking for the flaws in my own thinking.

For most of my life, I’ve worn my selfishness as a badge of honor. ‘I’m selfish,’ I would tell people, ‘But I’m upfront about it.”

Admitting it, you see, makes it okay.

My selfishness is a personal bit of self-irony and an exercise in comedic masturbation (how else do you describe sharing an inside joke only with yourself?).

I tell myself it’s alright. Because while I am very selfish in some areas of my life, in most areas I am incredibly selfless; on the whole I’m a really nice guy.

…but that’s entirely irrelevant. Because it’s not really about being selfish.

It’s about being self-centered. It’s about viewing the world only in terms of the role I have in it. Not that there’s anything innately wrong with this – I Ihink it’s the default view for the majority of people, if only for self-preservation reasons.

But if it’s not innately wrong, it’s not innately right either. And a change in perspective has never done a person harm.

I’m quite content with my predatory nature; this isn’t going to change.

But there’s nothing wrong with being a better wolf.

…or rather, parts of my life.

My life is not an open book; even here, where I capture the ideas and desires that motivate my life, I am discreet; I don’t have a ‘100 things about me’ list, I don’t complete memes, and when I write about people in my life, I tend to do so at a distance (sometimes weeks, often years).

Still, there are details, here, for the curious.

Such as how my life as a sexual deviant, which began at fourteen when I discovered sex in a medium not so different then the IMs we use today. It didn’t take long to be hooked – of course, I had to lie about my age to get people to talk to me about ‘adult’ things, but I was convincing.

And eager to learn.

My explorations didn’t stay textually based for long. I became rather attached to playing on the phone.. And this is where the real trouble began, because it is where I learned about D/s and led to me eventually meeting some of those I spoke with.

But I am more then the sum of my sinful endeavors. There are my scattered hobbies, my attempts to find life-reminders outside my study: sky-diving, hang-gliding, and my more sedate reading habits.

I’ve touched on dentists, my best friend in college, and the jewelry I wear.

There is mention of how I met my submissive and best friend, NE, and then how I kept her attention.

For the voyeuristic, there are a number of on-line chats from my past and a few examples of my more intimate playful exploits.

As for the rest – well, there’s a lot of posts I haven’t touched upon.

And you can always ask.

For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t want to get out of bed.

Most often I find my eyes open and know I’ve overslept. I’m out of bed and into the shower before I have time to register the fact I am awake.

But not this morning. This morning, I didn’t want to move. I was warm and the rest of the house was cold. I stretched, taking time, taking all the time in the world. I found myself on my back, eyes closed, and it just felt so good…no, can’t stay here all day.

I slid out of bed and wandered into my study, nudging the mouse to kill the screensaver. I glanced at the corner of my screen. Nothing that needed my attention. Sleep clung to me like a familiar lover, beckoning me back. I tilted into my larger leather chair.

My eyes were closed just for a few minutes, but several more managed their way past. When I glanced at the old clock in the wall above my bookcase, I realized I was no longer late. I was really, really, late.

The shower didn’t help; the hot water reminded me of the warmth of my bed and I found myself leaning my forehead against the cool tile – resting while the scalding water burned its way through me. I finally managed to drag myself out of the shower, throwing on black jeans and button-up shirt, and then I was out to my car.