Boy Vs. Man

What's the difference between a boy and a man?

Being a boy is about pleasure.

Being a man is about sacrifice.

A boy runs away from responsibility.  He thinks that everything should be perfect and his way and in place.  Detached.  Oblivious.  Care-free.  He's wonderful, a drifter.

A man. Now a man's different.  He's different.  The way a pup and a dog are different.  The way a buffalo and his calf are different.  The cougar not the cub.  The embers after, not the fire.  Being a man is not glamorous.  Being a man is rugged.  It's responsible.  It cares and endures.  It looks down the road and around the corner, not at it's own feet, step-by-step, reveling in it.  There's future in a man's eyes.

A boy's eyes show only change.  Pollen in the breeze.




The biggest difference in us from before, in our parents' age, is that the men were younger back then, and now the boys are older.  It's an abundance of comfort.  Where boys had to become men, they don't have to anymore, and everything's changed.  But so it's always been.

It's not about football and fast cars and  fucking.  It's about foresight.  It's about fortitude, of mind and body.

A man doesn't run for the hills, a man weathers the storm on the plot he's called his own, and builds and grows.

Failsafe

My mind, in it's never-ending quest for survival has, a little unknowingly until now, devised a safeguard for my body against suicide.  One day it told my hand to pick up a pencil and start writing, and now I simply can't kill myself, no matter how much I sometimes, frequently, desperately, lustfully dream of it, I can't do it.  Not until all the writing's done.

That being said, I say thank God for cigarettes.  And fast cars and motorcycles, and drugs, and lightning, and a powerful ocean.  I'm not going to pull any trigger, but I wasn't meant to be here long.

None of us were really.

I know that.

Guns Germs $teal

Guys see necessity.

Girls want security.



$peaking generally, of course.

I Want to Go To London in December

The feeling is a funny thing.  Love.  It feels weird to say it.  Love.  It's always associated with such a seriousness.  I always thought I knew what it was, that I could pin it down to the handful of words.  A one-liner.  It not that simple.  If you think it is, you're stupid.  There's a whole cast of thoughts behind the idea of love.  There are different kinds, different meanings, and different sets of feelings that come with each.

Whatever, I think I love her.  Claire.  And as time goes by, I do so more and more.  And what's more I think she loves me back.  She needs me, I think.  And that's something I've never felt before.  Not in love.  And I think I like it.  Like some purpose with companionship laid out in front of me.  Like a slow predictable story arc, no amazing twists or anything.  Except I have no idea what's going to happen.  That familiar dread isn't there.  Just reality.  And good living.

Love is good living.

Truths for Spring

Viceroy.  Early in the morning.
Don't take me for a fool now.

So this is life.  The what everyone else does.  This is what constant companionship feels like.  To wake up every morning next to the same woman who loves you.  Sound about the same as Argentina really, but lo, when I ask myself why, it's difficult to say.  It's not easy to explain.  I believe it's a matter of want.  I didn't want that, not like I want this.  This incredible feeling of right.  The warmth inside that's not, strange as it sounds, from the late summer late morning sunlight of a cloudless Santa Monica sky.

The wind from the east and the Indian spirit blows a soft breeze across the sun-deck over Amelia's, and my shirt's off and the thin film of sweat pores through as I write, a light and subtle glow.  But the warmth comes from inside like recollection, form remembering the feeling of her in the kitchen before breakfast, bent over the counter, the reflection in the kettle, and then the thought in my mind: what a life, I love this girl.

Even when she ties me up, even when she chokes me, and especially when she blows me.  I want her.  Maybe that's love, a prolonged mutual want, a symbiotic need for one another that's more or lass apparent to each party.  Similar wits, impressive prowess, healthy sexual appetites, and strong fucking, and maybe more and more making love, which I realize now that I so seldom do.  I'm so used to fucking for sport and not for love.  It takes some getting used to, but I like it.

And hey, it's not perfect, but who wants perfect really?  How manáge (I love that word).

Imperfections keep things interesting, especially when there's a recognized crazy on both sides, and yes, it's wild and she's jealous, and I'm absent minded and erratic and eclectic emotionally.  But we balance each other out, I think.  It's not always easy, but I think Mike had it right.  I'd rather have a desperate love than an easy one.  Looking for a perfect love gets you no where.  Finding a compatible, crazy desperate up-and-down, all-over-the-place broad spectrum, wild all-or-nothing love is everything.

I think.

Quote of the Day: Feel the Pain

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.

                                                 ~Jim Morrison

Success / Nothingness