I look through windows,
and see stuff,
in rooms I don’t control.
Maybe one day.
If I make enough money.
I can buy that stuff.
Have it delivered.
To a room I control.
I’ll tip the men $10 each,
And there it will sit.
In my room.
That I control.
You can come see it.
I’ll invite you just so you can.
Laughing at me and my hourglass title.
“Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us”
As we go through life, inevitably we come across people, who for one reason or another, don’t love, or even like us. Accepting this is part of growing.
And growth is an important goal. But letting go of enemies (no matter how benign) is equally important.
“When I do this, they’ll see” is a dangerous trap because it places those who don’t understand us in control.
Winning love from an enemy doesn’t represent success. Forgetting an enemy by gently taking the sting out of their imagined indictments does.
Work to please the love in your life, not those who withold it.
Someone may read them, and see what you’re thinking.
Tell you they suck.
Talk about you when you’re not around.
Deny you a job, or a handshake.
For God’s sake man.
Hide your poems!
Put those things away.
But before you do.
What else are you hiding?
I saw a shitty apartment, in a nowhere part of town, that was priced too high.
No one looks you in the eye. I walked everywhere, but didn’t really get anywhere.
There are papers all over my floor, my California grip slipping.
But I stopped for carry out on Hudson and talked to a Brazilian dancer playing the part of a waitress. She had a man’s name tattooed on the back of her neck. The outline of a navy blue heart on her wrist.
Told me “all the jobs are headed to L.A. Here, it’s just Broadway.”
She wants to leave New York too.
I’m good til’ the morning.
A close friend shared a poem with me today. I enjoyed reading it, but I enjoyed being trusted with it even more.
I’m tired of the masks.
My friend could have kept the poem to himself. Pretend to always be strong, or normal, or whatever. But he didn’t. He sent me something that was true about him, and I love him for it.
Those are the only people I want anymore. The real ones. Because we can smile, and curtsey, and dress up, but it’s going by so fast, and all that doesn’t matter. I learn from the vulnerability of the people I love and respect. They fuel me. They keep me going.
I don’t need every conversation to be deep. Let’s talk about the afternoon lineup on Food TV (my Mom and I love Barefoot Contessa).
Just don’t pretend the mask is real. That you’re not in their somewhere.
After awhile, it gets old playing the cool guy.
Because I’m not him.
And neither is he.
An interesting thing happened in yoga last night. This girl comes in late and takes a spot at the front right corner of the studio, directly in front of me.
As the class got going, she turned around to face me. This meant that we were staring at each other for every vinyasa sequence.
It was a little awkward, but also cool. I like non-conformists. The rest of the class all pointed north, except the girl, who looked south. She went through the entire class this way, facing in the “wrong” direction.
It put a huge smile on my face.
I loved that she was pointing in the wrong direction, and I loved that Gerhard didn’t correct her.
That’s how I went through the first half of class, smiling at the new girl who was doing it “wrong,” glad that no one “corrected her.”
It wasn’t until class was half over that I realized she wasn’t pointing in the wrong direction. She was new to class, and decided to look out at the room so she could better follow transitions. It was smart, and made her experience better.
How many other times have I done that? Assumed someone who wasn’t doing it like everyone else was wrong or confused, when I was the one who was wrong and confused.
Conformity is anything but wise.
Sometimes the thoughts make me tired, and for this month, I walk down the street.
Need wine to get there.
To the Pacific.
It roars like every Lion should.
And I just watch. Watch the waves crash in.
It makes sense then.
Ink to the shore, city lights down the coast.
They’re fucking for dinner in the city, but on the horizon only God.
I make dough, but don’t call me dough boy.
Most of us have seen the movie Rudy. The story of a kid from Gary, Indiana who makes the Notre Dame football team against long odds.
By all measures, Rudy was a football player before he ever ran out of the tunnel. But until his family saw him in his jersey, they didn’t believe he was part of the team.
He could talk about practice, even show the bruises he’d earned, but they didn’t see it.
And they won’t.
That’s what it is to be an entrepreneur. Most of the job is spent with the practice squad. Taking beatings.
Until we’re wearing a jersey, it’s polite smiles.
We can feel ourselves growing stronger, learning from teammates. But as real as it is to us, it’s not real to them until we’ve been assigned a number.
Maybe that shouldn’t matter. But for many, the entrepreneurial ambition is to run onto the field in a jersey. Not as much to validate the entrepreneur, as to silence his critics.
My “little” project?
Wait until you see me in my jersey.
For as a bat’s eyes are to daylight so is our intellectual eye to those truths which are, in their own nature, the most obvious of all.
One of the magical things about living alongside the Pacific is the marine layer, a cloud of mist that takes over the coastline, usually in the mornings. Go a few miles inland, and the sun is shining bright. Wait a few hours, and the sun will burn off the marine layer, revealing the spectacular blue of the Pacific. But while the marine layer is at its peak, the California coast is covered in fog. If you arrived on one of these mornings, and left before the marine layer dissipated, you’d think Southern California was one big cloud. That the rumors of sunshine were just that. Rumors.
That’s exactly how we as a society experience the world. “If you condense the history of the Earth — about 4.6 billion years — to just one year, humans have been been here for only about 23 minutes of that one year.” We have occupied Earth for less than .000001% of it’s existence, yet we make grand proclamations about how it works.
For some, the collective scribblings in the human notebook have ruled out God.
Our observations are useful to live in the world, and I will run to them when I am sick, or in need of transportation, or even a recipe. But I also fight to keep them in perspective as written in crayon.
The perch of humanity is small. We don’t see as far as we think. We’ve lived our entire lives inside the marine layer.
We don’t know California.
We’ve never seen it in the sunshine.
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
I’m living in California for the next month or so, and have been lucky to find a yoga studio I like. It reminds me of the Miami studios where I first fell in love with yoga. In shavasana tonight, they played John Lennon’s Imagine.
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today…
I don’t want to imagine there is no heaven. With all my heart, I hope there is one. Seven years ago, I watched my Grandmother die. At age 93, she was innocent. There was a strength in her no one could touch. She went to church every Sunday, patient, humble, sweet. She believed there was a heaven, that Christ rose from the dead.
She asked me to say Hail Mary’s. I say one most every night. I pray to God, and ask him to forgive me, to watch over my friends and loved ones. To send my Dad strength, and to protect my Mom and Sister from anyone who would do them harm. I pray for my Grandmother, my Grandfather, and for all those I know who have died. I can feel them with me. Sometimes they whisper in my ear. They watch over me.
I don’t imagine there is no heaven. I imagine the bonds I’ve forged on this earth lasting forever. I imagine meeting my Grandmother again.
I imagine there is a heaven.
It’s easy if you try.