The Anxiety Trip

It all starts from a trickle, like a droplet from a faucet. It’s an idea that begins at the size of a grain of sand. And then it grows. It’s a thought based condition. The droplet becomes an open flood-gate. It’s an idea that grows and takes shape.
Thoughts take form in the mind and then suddenly, we create a scenario in the mind, which is complete with a fully imaginative video – almost like a movie, like a psychological tragedy which is complete with all the characters in our life and leads a plot that is unfortunate or tragic.
We create a concept in our mind that hits all the triggers and hits every alarm in our anxiety system. Next, we’ve thought ourselves into “Red-Alert” status. 

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Facing the Isms

What I am about to share with you comes from a personal perspective. And I agree; opinions are subjective. Perhaps life is subjective as well. However, our differences do not have to mean that we have to fight or argue.
Deep down, I do believe that we all want the good things. We all want success. We want ease. We want joy and, equally, we want to be valid and enjoyed. We want to be included and regarded.
In most cases, yes, there are exceptions to the norm; however, most people are good at heart. I would argue that there are times when goodness is hard to see. I will say there are times when peace seems more of an impossibility than just unlikely. Nevertheless, as good as people are; even good people are capable of bad things. We all make mistakes. We all say things that we wish we could take back. Ignorance is not prejudice – even if we are. Ignorance isn’t.
Again, I go back to the quote from Twain when he said, “Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.”
There is something to this. Deep inside the shame-machine, I know there has to be a conscience. I know that there is training behind hatred yet we know the difference between right and wrong. Intellectually, we understand the difference between kind and hurtful.

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Fix Your Grin

In short, we have to allow for changes. We have to understand that not everything will go as planned and, in fact, not all plans will account for every obstacle.
There will be miscalculations. There will be setbacks. There will be the unexpectedness of natural events. Yet, there will also be days like this when the sun shines and the world awaits us.
So, fix your grin and be ready for it all.
There will be slips and falls and inaccurate assumptions too. As a matter of fact, there’s a word for all of this. It’s called life. Be ready to live it.

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From Inside the Classroom: Finding the Value of One

I wonder now.
Where was I on this day back in 1988? I wonder, for example, the math that went into deciding my turns or predicting my future. I say this because if at all, if we are anything; we are most certainly an outcome. And now as I approach you with this thought, although my time in math class with word problems is far distant from me now, the idea of finding the outcome in a mathematical equation means the possible result that depends on probability.

I pause here to warn you that I was never an exceptional student – especially in math or science or especially in understanding probabilities. I say this and admit that intellectually, I understood the basic math of me plus you. It was the emotional math that was often miscalculated 

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The Social Fit

Years ago, it seemed to be that there was a group of people who decided the standards of cool or pretty. I don’t know why this is. I don’t know who gets to decide what is fashionable and what isn’t.
Years ago, there was the popular side of the lunchroom. There was the social draw or the need to fit in and be part of a group.
Identity and identification is everything and so are the politics. Who are you? Who are your friends? It is ideas like this which dictated and determined your status of popularity.

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Sunday Morning Motivation: A Vision Statement

There are words like “if” or “when.” I hear them spoken in ways like “When” or
“If only”
If this is something that you can understand or if “when” has become the determining factor of what you do; or if the word “if” and “when” determine how you’ll succeed; or, if you believe that this is the best you can be (but you want more) or “if” there is something holding you back like a mindset or a belief – or “if” you’ve become limited by an opinion; or, if you think the world just doesn’t work out like it’s supposed to – and there you are, alone in your thoughts. Or, “if” you seem alone in your life and no one really gets it. Or, what about your moods?

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Side With What’s Right

I was never much for sports, which is not to say that I did not enjoy the idea of playing or have the urge to have fun. However, there is a saying that comes to mind. This saying was something that I heard at a young age and while I am no longer young, I still wonder why people say, “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose. It’s how you play the game.”
That’s what counts, right?
I think of this and say to myself, “Sure. Now, go tell this to someone who is always picked last.”
See how they feel about this.

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The Farm . . .

I like to think about this.
There was a dirt road that led out from in front of the house, past the barn, and down to the main road, which was long as ever, mainly empty, and always quiet. I had never seen places like this before. I suppose a part of me never knew towns like this existed. At least, not in real life. All I knew was all I had only known, which was my usual routine life, alive and unwell, and living crazy near the city. I never knew anything about small towns or small town life. I certainly never knew what it was like to be greeted by a stranger who said “hello” just because this was the right thing to do. As far as I knew, most strangers who say hello are looking for something. No one was ever kind for no reason, or so I thought.

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A quick tip . . .

This is easier than you think . . .
People ask if there’s a secret to being helpful. The truth is there is no secret. There are natural ingredients that we have as people which, perhaps, not everyone is as in tune with this. But still, we all have the ability to listen. We all have the need to be heard. We have the need to be understood and the desire to be acknowledged. 

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Letters From a Son – 5/11/2022

I wonder what she would say. My Mom, I mean. I wonder what she would think if she were in the audience or if she were to hear the interaction at a webinar.
I wonder what Mom would think if she knew that I was about to offer my practice to a Women’s International Network. Then again, I wonder what anyone who knew me “then” would say if they saw me now. Would they bash me? Would they roll their eyes and say, “No way!”
I wonder if those who noted my past mistakes would allow me to surpass my previous limitations. Or, wait, no. I wonder this about myself because perhaps if it wasn’t for my past, I might have never decided to hold myself accountable to create my present – or improve. 

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Working for a Living – It’s a Crazy Thing

There is something to be said about the time we spend together. There is also something to be said about the way we break bread with each other. And there is something to be said about our experiences we share or the struggles we go through. There is something about the memories we have and then somehow, the world moves us in different directions. What I mean is that suddenly, somehow, we move on and can almost become strangers.

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A Little from the Abstract: Peace to the Childlike Soldier

I was a kid when I first heard a real poem. I was home alone at a time when I was supposed to be elsewhere. I was in the middle of my own crazy fit and losing to my own rebellions. I was wild and perhaps misunderstood but then again, I’m not too sure how understanding I was either.
I refer to this as my dawn or my start of day and the early part of my life, which of course, I have passed my noontime hours and before the sunset comes, I find myself in need of freedom or in a word, I want peace.

I was home, hiding away from the rest of the world, high, smoking cigarettes from a pack of Marlboro Reds. I was long haired and had bloodshot eyes in which, I might have thought that all of this made sense, which it did. There was me and my altered views and then there was another version of me. This was the person who was tired of being afraid and tired of the forced or coerced and the social constructs or opinions, which I had nothing to do with. But still, there was a pecking order in life and to me, who was I to challenge something that has been around long before my time?
I can remember practicing the things that I wanted to say to people. I used to rehearse in front of a mirror. I remember the ideas I practiced and planned only to find myself quiet when the moment was right. By that time, I was out of my head. Especially when or if I was drinking because nothing ever comes out right then.
I wanted to speak. I wanted to say the right things but instead, I’d speak and have the last words I’d say, repeat in my mind; as if to echo with an uncomfortable awkwardness – and anything I’d say after to redeem myself would only come out worse, which was like a hole that just kept digging itself deeper- until I quit or broke down.

I knew that I had so much to say. My only problem is I never knew how to say it. I never knew how to be brave enough to be me, without regret. But, I could write it. I might not have been able to share it or allow anyone to read what I wrote – but for the moment, pen in hand and paper beneath me, I was free.

I suppose I can narrow my first inspiration to a movie and the words, “When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house.” To me, this was more than an opening scene to a movie. This was more than an S. E. Hinton book that became a movie. This was an apropos or fitting assessment of who I was and how I felt at the time.

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the basement of a house or from the bottom of some godforsaken place where it was fine for me to hide, I can remember the sun and the blinding aspects of exposure. I can remember my life and my small, crazy town.
I can remember the different distribution of popularity and the names, the so-called cool kids, the crazy kids and the difference between the crowds was a clear distinction of who you were, who you weren’t and where you were welcome.
I remember the badges and the scars and the masks as well as the personal images which we all hid behind. No one was themselves. At least, not then.

Everything was a pose. Everything we did was an attempt at personal posture. How you dressed said everything. How you looked said even more and though there were times when I was fit enough to get away, more often, I found myself wondering about this mix of life. I found myself in the middle of the good and the bad and connected the people we knew or the friends we had.

I was somewhere in the middle of this idea that somehow, my life was only a project and that somewhere, a person in a white lab coat with glasses on and a clipboard in hand took notes about me as if I were an experiment.

I saw myself as a person in training. But training for what? I didn’t know – at least, not really. I only knew that I had my fair share of personal psychosis. I used to hear the sound of breaking glass in my ears when my anxiety broke me and then violence struck the scene – whether me or you, someone would have to hurt or bleed, which to me seemed like an understandable aspect of things.
I wouldn’t use the term paranoia to describe me in all cases but instead, I saw myself in such a way that I assumed my tragedies were part of life. I assumed that this was “my” normal and that although you or someone else might have a different view, this was me.
I was caught in underbelly and locked in the low-end of life’s cycle. This was my place in the social caste system. But yet, there were times when I saw beauty or that I could be more beautiful. There were times when I noticed the sunlight or the sunset. There were times when I noticed the smile of a young girl who, of course, might not have noticed me; but still, it was enough sometimes to see a smile. It was enough to know that there are beautiful things in this world and that to see this or to notice meant that I knew what beauty is, which by default; meant that I was beautiful too.

I remember the first poem I ever heard, which of course; when I say this, I mean a real poem and not one that starts with some dirty-minded limerick that goes, “There once was a man from Nantucket.”
Instead, it was something that came from Robert Frost. 

“Nature’s first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf’s a flower
But only so an hour
The leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down today . . .
. . .  Nothing gold can stay.”

As I grew older and came to the understanding that my early youth was only a training ground; that school and schoolyard lessons, on top of the government of popularity, socialization and the secret handshake assholes were all part of life.
I also came to the understanding that I was not so alone. Pressure is felt across the board and by everyone – the pressure to be or appear, or to have the right answers or know what to say, to act as if, or to be “on point” so-to-speak and all that goes with this; these are the exhausting details of who we are and how we interact. It’s tiresome at times. Draining.
Stressful.
I suppose the challenge I felt and the challenges that others might deal with is to find the secret of endurance and the keys to personal sustainability. 

Stress or anxiety are normal. There is a healthy aspect to this which teaches us that something dangerous could happen. This is what fear is. This warns us to be safe; however, this can also become irrational. Like an engine, we can only run at high speeds for so long. We can only run in the red for so long before the engine breaks down. And that was me.
This was my anxiety; always afraid of the impending doom; always waiting for the next thing to go wrong, waiting for the news, the rejection and this was me in fear of my own self. I was afraid of letting me down again, of misspeaking, of being misshapen, of being distorted, or demented, confused and uncomfortable. This is when the glass would break in my mind like the sound of a brick through a storefront window.

If I could go back and tell me anything, I suppose I would go back and teach me how to dismantle the attitudes of my assumptions. I would teach me about the energy of my thinking and that there are two halves of thought – one thought is the one I was used to and the other is the other side – that yes, things can be tough; but things can also improve if we choose to improve them.

As tough as I wanted to be, I knew the toughest thing that anyone could be was to be themselves, without decoration, without explanation and to stand on your own two feet, regardless of the crowd around you – this is tough. This is what it means to be a tough guy. 
But I wasn’t tough.
I was just me. (See the confusion?)

My first real poem went like this:

If I listen, I can hear you in my thoughts
And if I look, I can see you in my dreams
Or behind the movie screens of my eyelids.
But someday,
I hope that I can hold you in my arms
Forever –

This meant more than to be in love. This meant more to me than romance and more than the feeling of my skin against the skin of another body.
No, this meant me stepping out from the darkness of the places where I would hide, brave enough to face the world and fearless enough to be me. This was me emerging from where I kept myself, regardless of the common thought and above all, comfortable in my skin and comfortable to say this is who I am, this is who I love and this is who I want to be.

Robert Frost said nothing gold can stay-

I used to agree with him.
But this thing in me, this drive and the youthfulness of my soul, regardless of age or the beatings or the downfalls – this is me, still writing, still learning, still admitting to my childishness, which is brilliant because if I were able to love as a child and be as grown as I am – then I will have done something amazing with my life – regardless of those who poke, I would still be me. The worn solders of my spirit could settle in by the fire.

 And to me, that’s better than gold –
That’s better than platinum.
But more . . .
That’s peace.

Mirror Rehearsal: Sweet Soliloquy [Take One]

There isn’t too much time for indecision. Or, then again, maybe there is. Maybe we don’t know what to do, so . . . we sit still. Or, maybe this is only you and I and we’re in the middle of a moment. And neither of us are willing to let it go because neither of us know how.
It could be.
Maybe this is one of those things or maybe this is a moment, like Deja-vu, and it feels like we’ve been here before. But of course, we haven’t.
“Now” only happens once. I know this. And so do you. However, I suppose this is a moment that comes with a special awareness – and we find ourselves at an impasse; or maybe this is an an instance of attention, intensified by emotion or otherwise in-tuned with the details we find. 

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Driving in the Rain

Early morning –
I am driving on the parkway during the pre hours of sunrise, rainy, wet streets and heavy droplets of rain are crashing like tiny kamikazes into the flesh of my windshield.  I am tired, thinking of course, and finding myself lost in the vault-full of ideas that come to me at this hour. 
This is the mind on autopilot.
I am moving at a pace which is north of the speed limit and I am consciously aware but subconsciously, I am someplace else. 

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Nostalgia: The Days of Way Back When

There was a time before this time or better yet, there was a time when we were more connected to each other. Everything was different. The music was different. The way we dressed was different.
The world was more user friendly back then. Or wait.
Better yet, the world was more interactive. We gathered more. We talked more and texted less – then again, texting was different back then too.
You had to really mean it when texting began. What I mean is, you had to go by the letters of the alphabet on each number.

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Change a Thought/Change a Direction

The biggest challenges we face are the challenges in our mind. And suddenly, it’s the idea that we will face something so big or unstoppable and n the midst of our thought process, we’ve become so intimidated that we lose ourselves.
We lose our drive because our predictions have brought on the suggestion of defeat. Since the end result of our thinking is an emotional reaction that changes our chemistry; emotionally, we’ve taken on the responsibility of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet. 

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To Be One Step Better

Each day you are tasked with an option. To do or not, to be, or to stand or retreat; these are all options the same as it is an option to succeed or to fail. All of this is a position of the mind and a relation to our thinking. We are either the outcome of our assumptions or we can be the product of our efforts. This is something that has challenged me throughout my life. In conjunction with the stories I’ve learned from people who struggled to believe in themselves, I came to the conclusion that the biggest challenge is the direction of our thinking.

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The Anxiety Storms

It’s amazing, the strength of the hand. It’s amazing what people can do. It’s amazing what people can build and equally, it’s amazing what stands or what falls or what we can create or destroy and lay to waste.
It is amazing how infinite we are and at the same time, we are our thoughts. Thus, it is amazing how unaware we are – about us, about the way we are, about our worth, our beauty, our abilities. Above all, it is amazing how unaware we are of our ability to rise above or endure. 

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Just to Laugh

They called it the fish bowl. This was a meeting room behind a glass, sliding door in the rear of the cafeteria. I had no idea what this meant or why they called this room the fish bowl. I had no idea why I agreed to this place nor did I believe that any of this was beneficial for me.
I was a kid and, at best, I saw this as a move to escape the shower rapes and jailhouse beatings that would have inevitably come my way. Had I not chosen this as an option, I am not sure that I would have survived the cages and the guards and the raw viciousness of other angry men.

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Notes on Building a Farm

I have lived different lives and like you, I have come to new understandings. I have grown. I have circled back. I have come to conclusions and reached new levels of awareness. I have come to the understanding that there are times when I had everything I needed, right there, in front of my face. Yet, I never knew it was me (or that it could be me) who could change or improve or be better than my expectations.

In some cases, we might call this maturity. In other cases, we might see this as lessons learned. Or, perhaps this is just life.
Maybe we think too deeply. We pick apart and overthink and no one wants the complications; yet, here we are on Project Earth. We complicate simple facts. We argue, we battle and we mix our opinions between facts and fiction.

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For the Moms We’ve Lost: 04-30-22

Note: I offer this only as a version with an open heart and understanding that words cannot do justice at a time like this. However, I can say that comfort comes with the company of those we love and those who choose to gather with us are the comfort we need in times of loss. Although this entry is titled with Moms in mind; truth is truth in all realms of life. And so, with all of my heart – I offer you this.

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From the Daddy Diaries: An Moment of Honesty

The connection we have to it all, such as the memories, such as our feelings, such as the end result which is emotion and such as our ability to recount the times is all we have. Years will pass and our memories become part of our possessions, as if to have them folded neatly and kept away like a tiny little keepsake. And I agree, yet bitter sweet at times, these are the memories of a time that will never come again. These are the moments from whence we came.

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The Art of Being Helpful

Patience is a virtue, or so they say. The dictionary says patience is the ability or willingness to withstand or to endure discomfort, to stay even-tempered when faced with provocation and to remain without complaint. This means patience is the ability to coexist or show tolerance. So therefore, patience is a talent. Some have it. Others, not so much.

Our ability to interact is a talent as well. There are people who support change and promote growth. They do this lovingly and wholesomely. There are people in this world who celebrate the advancement of people around them. And of course, there are other people who don’t.

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Written from a Room I Never Thought I’d See

There was a basement I knew about when I was younger. I would hide here. I would hide away from the groups and away from the different people and the so-called friends in my so-called crazy little town. I was a suburban kid with city genes. I was all over the place. Here, there and everywhere else I could be, if you know what I mean.
At least, this is how I see it. I was someone who had starry eyes and I was unsure if this was okay. But in either case, I always knew there was something out there for me.
Waiting. 

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Monday Morning Motivation – 4/25/22

There is a go-ahead sign to think and be. “You should be who you are,” right? But then of course, there is the truth behind the models and the smiles and the name tags which, in fairness – I have to say it, I call bullshit. 
Now, I do my best to never use profanity in my prose, especially in the first paragraph, in fear that some grammar-police critic will come along and slash the heart of my thoughts and point at every flaw. But still,
I call bullshit.

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Sunday Morning, 04/24/2022

Not sure if you can see this. Or, in fairness; I am not sure if you can see what I see or feel what I feel. And yet, I know you can see the sun and the sky. I know that you can feel the return of warmth. As the warm weather returns, I am sure that you have your own connections with the springtime – and of course, you have your own connection with the summer. 

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The Mind Between Rich and Poverty

Ah the mind.
When you’re on, you’re on and when you’re great, you’re great. The mind is a place where we live and we breathe. We think and we grow or we think and we fall.
It all depends . . .
We are a sea of choices. Which one? What do we choose and oh, what happens if we choose and wish that we chose otherwise?

For example, we find ourselves in a train station and for the moment, I will use this station as a symbol of life. There are two shuttles. Both will run parallel yet both rides are completely separate experiences. One shuttle could be mild. The other shuttle could be uplifting and promising.
Or, one shuttle can be packed with people since all of us are on the move and all of us are searching for something and all of us are on the way to the other side (or whatever that means).

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Abstract Prose: Truth

We wake up and we look around.
what do we see?
I often wonder if we know what we’re looking at.
I also wonder if any of this is real?
Is most of what we see an illusion?
The world. Each other. Life and liberty. The pursuit of happiness –
What are these things?
What is any of this if not an idea or lofty concept of life, which we are taught about and hope for? 

I wonder.

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About a Drive and Some Music

Breathe – It’s time to get away to a place where the destination is unknown.
There was a trip I took that began with no intention, other than to get away. I had no direction or reservation to be anywhere at any specific time. No, this was a whim or no, this was a long drive to nowhere. 

By now, I’m sure you know that I love these rides. I allow the turn of a key to switch more than just the ignition. To be clear, the playlist is important on rides like this one. You have to pick the right music and once the door shuts and the seatbelt comes around the chest; once the buckle clasps itself into the holder; the car goes in reverse to pull out from the driveway and then in drive to move ahead.
And that’s it. Off we go.

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From the Junkie Dairies: You Can Come Out Now

The truth is . . .
No one wants to know. At least, not really. No one wants to lift their heads from their early morning cereal in the kitchen of their homes while reading their early morning newspaper, surrounded by a white picket fence, a two-car garage and their 2.5 kids.

It is a comfortable spot on this side of purgatory. 
I’ve been told about this. Or, maybe warned is a better word to use here. But either way, I made a promise.
I made several of them to be exact and whether this coincides with a welcoming view and public acceptance or consumption; and whether people see this as “too raw” or “too real” has nothing to do with me.

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Stream of Consciousness/Insomnia Prose – Just a Flow

I find myself in the night, thinking about the midnight air at places like up high, or on rooftops in the city where moonlight dreams hush down along the blackness of a late night view along the Hudson River.
I find myself reminiscing of things that never really happened yet I reminisce about them as if they were real.
I find myself standing in the late night mindset. I stand where the air is still and the streets are quiet. As I look upwards to the midnight sky, I find myself wondering what happened to the dreams of a life beyond our hopes – or is it better to say the life we hoped for that was beyond our dreams.
Who knows?
Besides, this is just a quick moment of introspection.

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The Secret of Interpretation

The secret is simple. Are you ready for this?
The secret of interpretation is there is no secret at all. I see what I see and you see what you see and no matter how we compare or relate, neither of us can fully prove that what we see are the same things.
I don’t know what blue looks like to you. I don’t know whether you relate to the coming of dawn and the colors of an autumn sky in the suburbs, about 45 miles east of New York City.

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A Poem, A Symphony, and A Dream

The sky is blue now and perhaps we have grown beyond our differences from this time last year. Perhaps we’ve improved or at least I hope we have.
I am watching the sunlight as it beams over the large old trees that stand tall behind the small chapel, which has been in my town much longer than you or I have been alive.
It is a moment that we share, now, in the early morning sunlight which has just risen above the horizon. It is warm which shows promise to the warmer weather that has yet to come.
It’s not here yet. But summer will be soon enough. I know it. And so do you.

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A Rant to End Rants

Please forgive me but this is part of what I do.
It’s never easy to speak honestly or least of all to tell the truth about the so-called life or the feelings or thoughts and ideas that come along with certain disorders. And it’s true.
They pin stigmas on us like pins on a map. Perhaps the pins are red; as if to resemble a warning of what to expect (and what not to).
Perhaps this is to make a mental note of who we are and who we were. Or, maybe this is a judgment, which is more of a reflection on others.

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A Little From the Abstract: A Touch of Hope

Shakespeare wrote, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” This comes from The Tempest. I come from a place called Project Earth. My location is often in the city that never sleeps. I am born of this and from this; I have devised that I am me, a New Yorker (Or Nu – Yawk- a, as my accent implies).
I have seen many things from the great to the grand and from the poor to the sad. I have witnessed comebacks that were beyond my belief or comprehension.
I have seen destruction at the levels of war and as a witness, I was there to see my skyline fall – I was there when my City nearly fell; only to rebuild itself differently. Regardless of the holes in the skyline or the missing towers or Twin Towers to be exact; equally, I witnessed a call to join hands. I saw what happens when people stand together, to build back what was destroyed, brick by brick.

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The Damage Done from the Great Disconnect

There was this thing we used to call outdoors. Remember it? There were places too, like playgrounds for example. We used to go there when we were kids. Or an open field was a good place too. We used to fly kites. We used to talk. We used to play. And as I say this, I tell this to a white computer screen in an otherwise dark loft. As I say this to myself, my fingers push keys to formulate the words on a person-made creation, which we call technology.  I say these words in my head that appear on a screen to formulate my sentences. Yet, nobody reads anymore. Books and the traditional publishing business is and has been forever altered with systems that read to us for us.

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To be Good at Heart

I want to go back to something a young diarist said. She was only a kid at the time. I think she was about 13 when she started her diary. While I’ve heard about the controversy that suggests the diary was not written by a young girl at all; still, I want to go back to the Diary of Anne Frank where she said, “In spite of everything, I still believe people are good at heart.”

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When the Right Words do the Wrong Things

Are you ready for a little bit of honesty?
Here’s what people will tell you not to say. Here are the things people will tell you not to think, yet we think them. We feel them. We hear our thoughts as an internal voice and our thoughts are real.
Our thoughts may not be accurate but in the moment, our thoughts are as real as you or me.
Perhaps, this is why they say perception is not true. But instead, our perception is only true to us.

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Correction Over Criticism

The idea that comes to mind is more of a question really. And the question is simple. The question is how do we keep on moving? How do we start all over? Or wait, how do we go back to the old drawing board? Or, how do we grow stronger or stand taller after we’ve fallen down. I mean, let’s face it; it’s tough to get back up sometimes. It’s tough, especially when you’ve been hurt so badly that you’re not sure if you can stand back up again? But you have to get back up. Right?
Like it or not, no one can lay down forever. You have to keep going. Isn’t that what people say?

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Changing the Inner View

I wonder . . .
When can we throw it all away, as if yesterday never mattered and now, here we are. Nothing else could be more important than this moment. Right here. Right now. And without judgment.
Just to be present.
I find myself in various stages of inspection. Some would say that hey, this is just me. I think too much or too often but then again, we all do.
We think too much and we pause too often. We miss the boat sometimes and then it hits. us. There we are thinking about a sunset that we will never see again. Or wondering what the temperature is like in places we’ve never seen but only dreamed about.

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My Love is All

Then there’s love. Then there’s the next level of love which has nothing to do with lust or touch or the magical draw of energy from someone else. Instead, next there’s this level of connection in which you know someone and in your mind, you cannot remember a time when you didn’t know them. Or care. Or want them, need them or regard them.
But still, there is more to this because this cannot be achieved without love, or more accurately, a certain love that comes from within.
There is this undefinable thing; this indescribable feature that people share. There is this position we share, here, under the sun. There are times when the world is nearly empty, as is our heart. And there are times when we consider the word “love” and wonder if this is real – or at least if true love is real. 

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A Taste of Nostalgia – From The Upper Hills and Old Times

It was later than autumn here on Project Earth. The cool winds intercepted the previous warmth of the September month. We had past the times when the leaves were changing and the woven tree-covered mountains took on the various colors of yellow, orange, purple and even red. The trees took on a sea of color to make the canopy of autumn more vibrant and alive.
I swear, one could walk outside and smell the aroma of the season. One could smell the hint of wood burning from fireplaces and escaping through chimneys to permeate the air. At this moment, I could feel the nostalgia. I could feel the memories and taste the emotions which I admit were bitter sweet and beautiful.

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A Little from the Abstract: Reversing Our Polarity

I am here, between two poles, mid-gravity, and I am neither up or down or even mid-range but instead, I am somewhere in an atmosphere, which is either unexplained or misunderstood.
I am between two poles.
It is morning somewhere in a city where the pavement takes the sun between the buildings. There is shade and moments where the sun peeks through. My hands are tied in some regard. Tall buildings block the views but on occasion, we can find ourselves somewhere by water or someplace unobstructed and feel the breeze move through our hair.

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Just to Write: The Day’s of Way Back When

Early morning when the sun was about to show, the night was behind us and the dawn was proof that as young as we were, we were living. We were alive enough to recognize that we beat the dawn and that we broke the night into different pieces of memory. We lived as fast and as wild as we could and throughout the night, we danced and we played and we sweated in the hot celebrations in the downtown scene. We moved with trance-like music beneath the bright lights flashing and strobe lights, beaming and flickering, or pulsating to the techno-sounds and hypnotic beats of club music.

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Just to Share

One of the more interesting stories to me in the business world is the story about a man named Paul O’Neill. This was a man who came into the role of CEO at a company called Alcoa (Aluminum Company of America.)
What interests me most about this is not the position O’Neill held or the fact that I remember the Alcoa commercials from when I was a kid. No, what I appreciate most about this story is O’Neill’s approach when he first started his role.

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A Working Man’s Prose: A Sunday Night’s Thought

It rained. And the streets were wet but the afternoon sun came through the clouds to make the roads glisten. I can think of literally a thousand times when I have seen this before. I can think of the emotional background from when the afternoon looked this way.
And Sunday? Well, Sunday is more like a half-day to me. It is a day that’s partly a day off and partly a day of rest. It’s a day that’s partly holy or God-like with the streets filled with people in their Sunday bests and church goers. And, it’s a day that’s partly cut short in preparation for the work week ahead.

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Stream of Consciousness: The Beach

I was there at sunrise, the beach, the warmth of the sand and there she was, the hot sun, rising above the ocean. It was not long before that darkness took the sky and somewhere deeper in the sands by the shoreline, I could hear the howls and calls from a small homeless camp with men drinking and shouting up to the stars. They were drunk beneath the nighttime sky and in the warmth of a South Florida beach.
I was here not too long ago; yet, this seems like it was another lifetime. I took walks along this beach during the sunrise. I let the colors from the horizon take me away. As the sound from the surf crumbled in waves, I walked along the beach with a mindful of thoughts and a heart filled with wonder.

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Imagine the Action: Time to Make it So

I think I will end this here and yet, I am not ending anything. At least, not really. I’m not ending anything except for another journal. I am certainly not ending my dreams or my hopes or my plans to reach the next level of my journey. Not at all.
If anything, I am ending another chapter or phase so that I can prepare for my next project.
My idea to imagine the action was part of a stage or as it states in the stages of change, this marks the end of my contemplation and preparation. Next comes action. Then comes maintenance.
And for the record, I have a plan. I have a goal. I have methods and tactics and the ability to achieve. I also have the hunger and the desire to see my hopes come to life. However, it is clear that nothing worthwhile will simply appear. Our dreams take work to build them and effort to keep them going.

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Imagine the Action: Understanding Value

Imagine having something so valuable and then all of a sudden, it’s gone. Imagine this is something that money cannot buy.
Say, this is more of an accomplishment. Or, say this is something internal like an achievement that no one in the world thought you could manage yet you did.
Imagine the thoughts and the feelings that come when this is gone. Or more accurately, imagine this is something you gave away in a moment of haste.

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Imagine the Action: Finding My Method to Beat My Madness

I have chosen this as my method. And by this, I mean my journals and my time with you. This is my way to settle the tiny disputes that whisper in my head, in which I need something more than a quick fix or a temporary system of relief. After a while, you grow tired of the brief or interim remedies. You grow tired of the plans which only placate the troubles we see. Nothing is ever solved this way, only paused or momentarily tolerable. At best, we grow tired of the short-term ideas that lose their ability to desensitize us from the sharp edges of uncomfortable surroundings.
I chose this because this has become a voice for me. These words on my screen and the thoughts in my head have agreed to come together and allow me a moment of peace. This way, the worn soldiers in my mind can rest for a while and retreat from the enemies that never existed.

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