An Old Man in a Cambridge Bar

Came across an old man in a funky bar in Cambridge, Massachusetts on a cold winter night a few years ago. Quite a few years ago.

Funky dude - long white hair, long white beard, battered but functional coat. Holding court in a booth, college kids lined up to ask him questions. When his dimpled beer mug was empty, it was quickly refilled by the next truth-seeker.

I stood back, sipping my whiskey, watching the parade, feeling cynical. An opportunistic old dude and a bunch of idealistic young dudes. But, what the hell - a Cambridge bar on a Friday night - seemed appropriate.

I managed to make myself invisible that night, allowing me to look around and form opinions unobserved. I decided if the old man was just running a scam, well, good for him - free booze is the holy grail in this harsh world. But maybe he actually had wisdom to share. You never know. Wisdom happens, if you hang around long enough. You may not feel it, but it is most likely there. If you are so inclined, share it, but selectively - most people just don't give a shit.

When it got quiet I grabbed two whiskeys and sat across from the barfly philosopher. We shot the shit a little, then I asked if he had any advice for me. He leaned back and took a minute or two to size me up. Kind of felt like all of my weaknesses were on display. Eventually, he looked directly into my eyes and said:

"You will be old before you know it, and you'll have more regrets than victories. You'll  become desperate for one last chance at defining yourself honestly, through deeds, not words. Don't let the fear of death paralyze you, and keep you from trying. If you don't try, you will just die, and no one will ever know who you really were."

Humiliation Lurks..........................

Keep your fists up, for Christ sake.

Do you think life is a fucking game?

Death By...................

Last summer slipped by unfulfilled and uninspired.

You had a list of things you wanted to do, places you wanted to go. You needed a spectacular summer. You expected to have unlimited amounts of explosive fun.

Didn't happen. You got lazy. Apathetic. Two things got crossed off the list, the rest festered. And then winter set in. 

Fucking New England winter. Slapping you around, torturing you, fucking up your days. And this one is harsh, relentless, and unforgiving. Mountains of snow, endless days of single digit temperatures. You do nothing, you go nowhere. 

Procrastination kills, baby.

The Lecture and The Way

 Are you kidding me? With all this sensitive dribble? Come on, nobody wants to hear it. Fucking pantywaist shit. Knock it off. They hate you for it.

Empathy, soul-searching, complaining, admitting to weakness - keep it to yourself. Nobody fucking cares. It has to stop. All it does is invite condescension and scorn, leaving you wide open to annihilation. 

Everybody suffers, everybody keeps it to themselves. "How's it going?" "Great! How about you?" "Couldn't be better!" Bullshit. But it ain't wimpy. The facade is everything, baby - everything.

They want your blood, not your tears. So give it to them. Take all that internal bleeding and make it external -  a fucking tsunami of fresh, hot blood, a geyser slamming them to the wall like water from a fire hose. Dripping from their faces, soaking their clothes, making them feel superior. Smiling as they lick their lips.

Take your useless sensitivity and bury it deep down inside of you. When it bubbles up, layer grotesque lies on top of it. Kill it, suffocate it, never let it see the light of day. Lie to yourself so you can lie to the world. 

One day you will explode, and they will love that too. Ragged chunks of you strewn across the landscape - they win, you lose. But until that happens, fake it, baby - fake it. Everybody wants to see the swagger, even though they know you are full of shit. The swagger allows them to ignore your soul and treat you like a fraud, which is something they understand.

You are weak, and you feel weaker when you admit it, which sets the vultures to circling, so what's the fucking point? Hide it beneath a mountain of delusion.

There is a monster inside of you, a seething stew made up of anger and disappointment, hatred; bubbling up, boiling over. Let him out. He will kill, he will conquer. People will give you room. Which sets the table for revenge.

When someone foolishly exposes their vulnerability to you, you can strike them down. Punish them, humiliate them, hurt them. Make them pay for their humanity.

It's the only way.

I've Got A Feeling

Reading this morning, slipping into the protective world - peace-filled and worry-free - that reading offers me.

The story revolves around monks living in isolated seclusion in a very private monastery. The thought occurred to me that I could dig that. A life stripped bare. A bed, a table, a lamp. Books. Simple chores. Living with people who are forbidden to talk.

I don't engage well with life. I was not meant to live in the 20th and 21st centuries. I was not meant to be around people. I am not built to be decisive. I just want to live. I just want to feel.

As the fantasy formulated in my embattled brain, a thought exploded into my head - if that was my life I would not have my family. It was the kind of thought that jolts you - it doesn't just get thought - it surges through your body like electricity with the full power of your brain, your heart, and your soul behind it.

It screamed "You could not live without your family. It could never happen. You would shrivel up and die."

Been talking to a shrink, talking to my family, talking to myself - my brain is making creaking noises like doors in haunted houses make. My brain is evolving.

My entire adult life has been spent in warped perspectives, strangeness that prevents me from fully experiencing the joy I should experience in the way it should be experienced. Which is a big thing to say because I worship my family, I appreciate and love my family, but my diseased mind has kept me one step removed from the nirvana that I seek. The nirvana I am actually living.

What I experienced this morning, the visceral reflex that refuted the possibility of monastic living, is proof to me of change. I am realizing what I have. Fueled by 72, by thoughts of mortality, by fear, by thinking and questioning everything about myself - my whole being spontaneously rose up to say "You have exactly what you need, buddy - don't taint it with illusion."

It was a feeling much more than a thought.

Which makes it exponentially more powerful.

Those Who Oppose You

Howl, you sick beast. 

Make your mark. Break the bones of the ones who mock you, silence the voices, destroy their descendants.

You are here for a reason; justification or clarification is unnecessary - you can do as you wish. Those who oppose you must be crushed in excruciating pain. Make them suffer so others will learn. 

Your road is the only road, your dreams and desires override all others. Get what you want. Fashion your life exactly as you always dreamed it to be.

Howl, you sick beast.

Make your mark.

An Irish Prayer

 "Dear Lord, give me a few friends who will love me for what I am, and keep ever-burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. And though I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me to be thankful for life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet. And may the evening's twilight find me gentle, still. Amen"