I have a planner, and I'm sticking to it!

When you take a day off work, you have to make every minute count; and so far, I'm doing well. The planner I received as a Christmas present last year is now almost expired. Can't say I've maximized its potential; so I'm committed to squeezing every page dry. Going to Home Depot, Wal..et cetera. It's a looong list of things..

The List
...mind ya bidness

(Shameless plug: A poem of mine just published in The Jet Fuel Review - http://jetfuelreview.com/?page_id=609)

How's your day? Make every minute count somehow!

Fly Awaaaaay!

So I've been away for a while.. Here's a recap:

1. I moved to Philadelphia.
2. Somebody hit my car, then drove away.
3. Today a poem was published in the Fall '11 The Jet Fuel Review! http://jetfuelreview.com/?page_id=609

Happy Tuesday!!

40 Ounce Bachelor

I've had three poems accepted in the fourth issue of "FortyOunceBachelors." Here's the link: http://fortyouncebachelors.com/poetry14.html   

I'm the featured poet!  Enjoy

Exsanguination, Bloodletting and my little Heart

Exsanguination: To make bloodless; to drain of blood, bleed to death.

I recently watched the first season of “Luther,” a British detective show with Idris Elba and a cast of supporters, and in the third episode evidence was hard to come by as their murder victims were dying by exsanguination. After finding the spelling of exsanguination tucked behind the radiator, I couldn’t help but adore the sound of this word that means death. I’m not intentionally being dark, but it’s a flowery way to say somebody’s dead. Sounds like congratulations are in order.

Writing is an act of exsanguination – to bleed out completely and leave nothing behind, dirty sponge style. 

Earlier today I found my first gray hair, and couldn't stop thinking about marriage. The link between these I believe has to do with age and vulnerability, but honestly I’m not too concerned about that.

Like many people my age, friends are marrying. They’re “bleeding” in ways most of us don’t, haven’t, or just aren’t right now. But I suppose that means we’re the ones in control, because anyone who’s ever been in love knows you’re never in control of your life.

(Are we now, us loveless bunch? Are we? See: Restless Love Syndrome) 

I’m bleeding. I’m mourning, in between the times I pretend not to be. I miss people more than I can admit. I use the word people to disguise the word person, because that’d be too direct and it'd make us both uncomfortable - me standing naked in a thin robe of words. I am finishing books and television series, bottles of water, sentences I started while lying in bed with…people. I started love with people and am washing it down with rain.

It started raining and now it’s hailing; there was a hurricane after the earthquake. I started praying and crying because after prayer I’ll actually have to do something.

I’ve been literal and figurative on different occasions, but not when saying I’ve driven over a thousand miles for love, for the Lego piece missing from the perfect robot.

*

The second section of Ray Bradbury’s book Fahrenheit 451, called “The Sand and the Sieve,” comes to mind, as the metaphor of the sand and the sieve is itself a consequence of exsanguination –

A story in the book: One boy told another he’d pay him a nickel if he could get all this sand into the sieve. A sieve is a filter, a screen, through which small, insignificant objects pass, while sizable, significant things remain. The mission is impossible: there’s no way to fill a sieve with sand, but that doesn’t stop the foolish from trying.

I’ve been a fool before, and I recognize that I’m a fool right now. I’ve made choices that may be foolish, but made me happy. My happiness, my foolishness.

I’ve lost something dear to me, but I'm not sure if it’s a person or the idea placed in them, like a jewel placed inside the chest of a jeweled robot short one piece. It’s almost (nothing) like having dropped your keys at the beach, and marching back with this sieve in hand, heaving at sections of sand like it has the answers. 

Exsanguination and Bloodletting seem familial – the only difference being Choice. Bloodletting denotes a necessary release of bad blood for life. Exsanguination denotes a release of blood and a loss of life.

Twitter is a conduit of exsanguinating, a drip bucket of unimportant words and ideas. “August is the month of conservation,” I tweeted (@BLitReally), and didn’t have any meaning in mind, as Twitter is home for mindless dribble; but now I can imply something important about it, considering I need every dollar, hug, heartbeat, phone call I can guilt out of text conversations that start with “hey…it’s been a while.” Why is forever required between so many of my relationships, and why is crying so ordinarily a consequence? I know I ask too many damned questions.

I’ve been so caught up in change. I blame my sign: Sagittarius, the Great. Okay, I added that last part; but I love my sign – I’ll spare you the reasons. However, what’s an “understood” characteristic of Sagittarius is our desire for spontaneity and change. There’s been a bit much of that, even for me, and I’m beginning to feel sick, and out of control, out of touch with what it means to actually be happy. Am I happy for change, or am I actually happy with the change? Am I bloodletting, or am I being exsanguinated to misguided bliss? Is it human nature to ask questions, knowing we probably won’t be around to hear the answers? 

It’s hot outside, but the sand is very fine. I will find my diamond.

This is absolutely just a picture of me walking to get Mexican food yesterday.

The flash was on and, for whatever reason, the sky was beautiful.

Restless Love Syndrome

I just came home with two slices of pizza, and an iced-coffee. I'm not tired, but I enjoy D&D's iced coffee, so I bought it. It could've been lighter and sweeter, but sometimes it's better to taste the coffee. It_is_Wednesday.

As I walked down my block, there were three women walking up my block. They were all very young and very gorgeous. Two of these women were holding babies. The third walked in the middle, and as though she didn't know what to do with her hands.

Oh yeah

I have excuses for why I've been so neglectful. Yeah I know excuses don't amount to much, but this isn't about integrity; it's about blogging. Recently, I bothered to learn what a blog actually is, and was a bit surprised. This has been more essay, and less blog. Less blaah-g. I will blaah more. I will also essay, but will blaaah-g more. Little bites are sometimes better.

Lemme Upgrade Ya

Paulo Coehlo’s masterwork “The Alchemist” is a demonstration of metaphor.
The short and curly version: a boy, seeking his Destiny in the arid, African desert, befriends an Alchemist who helps him achieve his Personal Legend, and more. This is an inadequate synopsis; however, it’ll suffice for the purposes of this blog (Welcome, btw). If you haven’t read the book, or have no knowledge of Alchemy, an Alchemist is someone who possesses the power to turn ordinary metals to gold! Tales of magic are nothing new but still resonate with the fundamental lack of power we humans sometimes feel. Dove-tailed with the idea of the Alchemist is the idea of complete personal transformation. This is where the metaphor kicks in: just as the boy, Santiago, underwent an inevitable transformation to achieve his Personal Legend, so must we.

This investigation of change and transformation links to my first blog entry (somewhere on the right-hand side there) and, more obviously, with my life at this moment. Investigating the stages of Alchemy, which apparently has been researched for centuries, I realize it all seems very ready to be taken metaphorically – which no doubt excites me. Alchemy, which has four widely agreed upon stages, seems as much about personal development as it is about metal purification. Having read the book, “The Alchemist,” this parallel is also made clear: you cannot produce that which you don’t possess.

So let’s get golden, eh.

1. Nigredo (The Shadow), a blackening or melanosis – putrefaction or decomposition – for the dark night of the soul, when an individual confronts the shadow within.

Personal Legend is one of the driving forces, rather,_the_driving force in “The Alchemist,” and its definition is straight forward: we all have a Personal Legend, a true, and individualized, purpose for our lives. As it so happens, the very Soul of the World tries to help us achieve this goal, but only if we are striving for it ourselves. This is heavy, yet optimistic. If I want something bad enough, the World will help me, will be the wind beneath my tattered, weather-worn wings. The first step in achieving this Personal Legend is confronting your inequities, your “Shadow.”

Often, we do this with our surroundings: what people or things can we do without? We may not immediately act on these evaluations, but we certainly consider priorities and become selfish enough to help ourselves.

2. Albedo (Anima and Animus), a whitening or leucosis – the washing away of impurities by aqua vitae (Water of Life).

I’m no Alchemist, but this certainly has the typical fixtures of religion: the recognition of one’s sins or shortcomings, and the purifying of those to achieve a higher self. Perhaps the most important component of this second phase is the dedication and determination for the transformation. This too often begins with forgiving oneself for the time wasted not walking the path. Conforming to a religion or not, it’s honorable to be so devoted to an idea you’ll follow, to pray oneself to tears, to reach a level higher than most, to upgrade, to change ordinary metals to gold, to change ordinary life to “Personal Legend.”

(I’m no racist, but again with the white washing away the black – geez!)

3. Citrinitas (Wise Old Man), a yellowing or xanthosis – the dawning of the “solar light” inherent in one’s being, making lunar and soul light unnecessary.

Goodbye sun. Goodbye cruel, chocolate chip moon. “This little light of mine…”

Beyoncé touches on this idea of transformation wonderfully with her song “Lemme Upgrade Ya” – I am an exponent of (wonderful) change, so you should definitely get with this, for your own good. So much of our lives seem to talk economically: how much I’m putting out versus how much I’m receiving. The ideas of school, relationships, friendships, religion are very much alike in this regard – I’m investing time, money and emotion into this idea, how much return am I seeing? …

This all sounds very selfish and, truthfully, it should be. The primary investment is the self.

We tend to leave these institutions of love, faith and money when the upgrade is complete, wasn’t as advertised, or if it just costs too much (of ourselves).

While considering this economy, what’s always implied is self-worth. We already have an approximation of what we deem worth our time and energy, and what’s not. With that in hand, or in mind, or wherever you weigh your self-worth, we’ve already assessed ourselves, the “solar light” inseparable from ourselves. Only then can we know what an upgrade would be, that this, or you, could magnify what greatness we’ve already decided to possess.

What do we base our “solar light” on? Money, physical appearance, social approval, Twitter followers? What are you made of?

(Btw, I’m on Twitter now. Following me would totally augment my self-worth @BLitReally)

4. Rubedo (the Self, having achieved wholeness), a reddening, purpling or iosis – achieving an enlightened consciousness and total fusion of spirit and matter.

Image: blood, a phoenix, a rose, a crowned king.

This is it – you’re an Alchemist, you’re the best possible you, you’re Caterpillar Joe turned Butterfly Bob, you’re lighting the street Michael Jackson-style. Not only have you changed but you possess the ability to alchemize things around you. Lemme Upgrade Ya…right?

Maybe.

Oddly enough, upgrades always imply loss. Upgrading to the new phone means there aren’t any buttons, or the Wi-Fi’s shaky, the screen resolution is wonderful but the camera is horrible. Upgrading to a romantic partner means consistent sex and companionship. Upgrading from a romantic partner means different sex and more time for books.

Upgrading is easily a seesaw: the weight of who you used to be gets you high.

The same weight eventually has its turn up high, making for (elitist?) regret and guilt.

I haven’t investigated the myth too much, but I’m pretty sure King Midas’ touch didn’t allow for physical contact, sexual or otherwise. Being Michael Jackson was hard on Michael Jackson. Being a butterfly means don’t touch my glorious wings, or I’ll die right here. How can we reconcile these new boundaries and frustrations, this clearly vulnerable greatness?

The question remains: Do we suffer a lifetime of mediocrity, for its comfort, acceptability and growing company, or dare we journey on the path to our Personal Legend, for its lonely majesty, its barriers and misunderstanding?

God, Creation, and Background

No, I’m not religious, but the first blog starts with God. Seems fitting. (Note to self: don’t start the next blog with the word “No.”) God is the first idea because this is my first blog, my first attempt at this genre of space and rambling. Because that’s what this will inevitably be: an exercise of a Constitutional right, a constitution of my days in words. And such.

Starting out, I found my name is available for me to use here, as a web address. This, in itself, is also a kind of creation, a victory, I can be who I am while here, in the digital netherworld, in this virtual, conceptual space, in this virtual nothingness, where there is so much, thankfully.

(The first and second time I attempted creating this, my Internet Explorer failed and shut down.)

I wonder if that’s what happened the first (few) time(s) God created it all, if his screen went white, and a status window appeared analyzing the possible problem(s), “Chief, we gotta start this over.”

So much goes into this, I see. Picking a background seems especially taxing, as what you choose to stand in front of says so much about you, like choosing friends or friendly wallpaper. My first impulse, as usual, was to go abstract: ambient light patterns, dancing flames (which aren’t abstract, if you know fire), rainbows with color schemes bending their direction. However, I go with the photographer, the historian, the archiver, the creator. Personally (as all of this should be personal), I hate taking pictures, so I don’t take them often. This may have been a learned behavior, from my grandmother, who never looks into the camera when taking a picture. I’ve written about this in several poems and my fascination with it never gets old, as she passively escapes these usually awkward moments with a silent, compliant protest.

But my disdain for taking pictures aside, the idea of a photographer is intriguing. This is an individual who is very much in the moment, in fact, they are the moment; however they are in the one place they will never be seen. Nothing profound there. But the idea of focus and background transfixes. Yes, you are here, looking how you do, but what you’re before says so much about you and the moment (See: classic “sexy” fail – http://www.epicfail.com/2009/08/26/sexy-fail-5/).

All day yesterday, I spent time with good friends: some from high school, some from college. Without saying so, these tend to feel like reunions, to a degree, as there are always a handful of people who you haven’t seen in some time, and the inevitable question is, “Why have you been in the background?” Why, or how, have you grown this discernable distance from me? Consequently, upon asking this of others, we feel the gun turning on us, hoping others wonder why we’ve been in the background of their lives, their own microcosm of creation.

It was during one of these pow-wows, however, my friend Riese strongly recommended I start blogging. Riese, long-time girlfriend of a long-time good friend, has herself become a friend (which doesn’t always happen). In some way, she is also the creator of this first blog, and I thank her. I’m realizing blogs help with this writer’s anxiety to be “good;” from what I can tell, this is all about being consistent, not necessarily good (And then you say, so why am I reading this? And then I’ll say, come on champ, we’re almost done). Consistent like waves, ebb and flow, ocean waves.

(Shameless plug: a poem of mine was published this week: http://tawdrybawdry.com/Poems/PoetryHome.html       If you’re not tired of me at the end of this, feel free)

Riese (whose name I must repeat a third time for Biblical reasons), always seems to remind me of my own change, my own ebb and flow, that “there’s Bryan the (ex)teacher, the reserved romantic,” and then there’s “B,” there’s “Miami B” (she’s heard stories...which ones I’m not entirely sure). The two aren’t exactly day and night, but perhaps minute to minute. Putting time duration aside, the idea of change is a variation on the idea of (self)creation, but scarier. Creation is an announcement, it’s a new leaf on a plant, a new sandwich at your favorite food joint. Creation is bold and understood as a cog in the order of the world. Change, however, is scary, unannounced most times. Change comes in pounds and hair color, cars and college. Change is the world’s biggest secret. Every butterfly one day said I’m tired of having so many legs, and built little huts of change, which I’m sure are made of their version of mucus and pus, and ceased being caterpillars. One day they broke the seal and flew away. Humans don’t have the luxury of being this metaphorical and literal and beautiful all at the same time, but we have the same need for secrecy. From The 48 Laws of Power, a doorstopper of a book I’ve been reading for some time and will no doubt allude to endlessly in this blog, Law 30 is “Make your accomplishments seem effortless.” Accomplishments only come from the private moments of sweat and toil and desire, the bug years of churning oneself into something more beautiful and functional, to unfold and glide. Nobody knows what the butterfly had to do to become, to slide like butter.

Which brings me back to this photographer in the background, clocking change. How have you changed? Do you like what you see? (Yes, you)

I will keep this under 1000 words. I’ll admit, I’m sitting in McDonald’s, among screaming kids and Spanish-speaking French fries. In America, we’ve made sure we can see how fast our food is, and want to see our McGriddles made and fries flipped and coffee poured; we want to be part of creation everywhere. Standing here, focusing on the process, we know how many Calories per bite, how many shakes of table salt the once-pretty lady gives us. We know, one day, God will spit in our food, politely fold the bag, and tell us have a nice, chewy existence.