A classic line from Bohemian Rhapsody--"Just gotta get out / just gotta get right outta here"--is playing on loop in my head at the moment.
Do you ever feel like you've stayed too long in one place? The voice inside your head screams, "Let's go somewhere! Do something!" So you do something, but it doesn't quite fill the void. You write a poem, but you feel like you're speaking in circles. You take a walk, but the scenery does less for you than you'd hoped it would. You do some laundry then decide against it because let's face it laundry's boring.
It seems to me that no matter how old I get, I will never stop feeling lonely, I will never stop feeling frustrated, and I will never stop feeling the need to compare myself to the world around me in some subconscious attempt to validate my sense of self and keep my ego satisfied (or dissatisfied, at times). Fortunately, though, truth exists outside the vacuum of human experience. I don't need to go anywhere special to feel any certain way, unless that place is Wal-Mart on Black Friday, because only then and there will I feel the type of claustrophobia that comes once a year.
Maybe if I went somewhere different I'd find myself happier, or more at peace with the world. Past experience says most likely not. And who am I to question it?
My thoughts feel like they're in a race against themselves.
Joyce Meyer has always been someone I admire, if not for her stunning hair style then for her frank attitude and practical, no-nonsense approach toward personal joy. I used to watch her television program "Enjoying Everyday Life" every morning before school my senior year of high school. My older brother and sister had moved out of the house, my stepmom was usually working, and my dad had died that fall. I was alone the majority of the time. Something Joyce said about loneliness has stuck with me since the first time I heard her say it: "You have to learn to love yourself. Because no matter where you go, there you are." The audience laughed, and so did I. But it's all too true! That same feeling of loneliness can be the one that I cherish at times, so why do I fear it?
Even now, writing this blog, I wonder how many people feel the way I do at the particular moment. And while it's never wise to assume the feelings of others, I think I can safely say that everyone feels, at some point in their lives, stagnant. Should we all pack up and go to SXSW for a week? Maybe. But I doubt it would fix any longstanding problems in our lives.
Happiness exists indefinitely. It can't be experienced in the past, and it can't be experienced in the future. True joy can only be accessed right now, in this moment, in this place. Everything else is paperwork. The Bahamas aren't harboring my happiness like a fugitive. Neither is Paris. I am harboring my happiness because I feel like I don't deserve it. I haven't done enough to merit happiness. I haven't worked hard enough, prayed long enough, or loved deeply enough. These are the accusations of the inner sadomasochist that exists inside every one of us and feels justified in torturing itself for the sake of some imagined ideal state of living.
In this moment, though, I know I am alive and thankful. The dark side of the moon is still there. Maybe I should travel there more often and bring a flashlight.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Luck Has Nothing To Do With It
My friend Lori sent me a text last month that read:
"Did you know that, according to ancient Greek mythology, people used to have 2 heads & 4 arms and legs? Zeus decided this wasn't right, so he split the people in half with a lightning bolt.. now people spend their lives searching for the other half of their souls."
I didn't believe in soul mates until this summer. Even still, whenever I surround the issue with a cloud of logic, or at least attempt to approach it from such a perspective, I find the idea to be at best, plausible, and at worst, unapproachably mystifying. Who can say what the soul is in the first place, let alone who it belongs to?
As of late, I've been incredibly boy crazy, and not so much in the sense of just looking for someone to kiss or be intimate or share the secrets of my soul with, but rather, it seems I'm looking for something or someone so valuable to me I can't quite put it into words or even visualize what he looks like, so I just look for what I know I'm attracted to--vague surface qualities, like a pretty face, a kind smile, a willing heart, or a pair of brilliant brown eyes that pull me in. None of these factors seem to matter when I stop and think about why I might be feeling the way I'm feeling. When I strip away the paint, I'm left with a mirror, and the reflection is only me, asking why I'm not enough. Admitting this is probably one of the most difficult things for me to do. I would much rather continue living in my delusional world ruled by fate and luck, waiting for the Universe to do all the work for me.
Luck has a way of making me feel at odds with the world.
I secretly believe my soul is made up of little bits and pieces of knowledge it has collected over the course of its journey. I'm also a believer in multiple soul mates. Just like one can have more than one best friend, so can one have multiple soul mates. If you believe that human lives can and indeed do transcend their earthly time frames, how can you argue against it? Out of all my best friends, though, beyond the people I grew up with, and deeper than my most intimate family connections, I feel a calling. It's a voice so distant I can barely even hear it, yet it's so true I always return to it. Whoever that voice belongs to has my heart and soul without question, and whenever I find them, luck will have had no part to play in it.
"Did you know that, according to ancient Greek mythology, people used to have 2 heads & 4 arms and legs? Zeus decided this wasn't right, so he split the people in half with a lightning bolt.. now people spend their lives searching for the other half of their souls."
I didn't believe in soul mates until this summer. Even still, whenever I surround the issue with a cloud of logic, or at least attempt to approach it from such a perspective, I find the idea to be at best, plausible, and at worst, unapproachably mystifying. Who can say what the soul is in the first place, let alone who it belongs to?
As of late, I've been incredibly boy crazy, and not so much in the sense of just looking for someone to kiss or be intimate or share the secrets of my soul with, but rather, it seems I'm looking for something or someone so valuable to me I can't quite put it into words or even visualize what he looks like, so I just look for what I know I'm attracted to--vague surface qualities, like a pretty face, a kind smile, a willing heart, or a pair of brilliant brown eyes that pull me in. None of these factors seem to matter when I stop and think about why I might be feeling the way I'm feeling. When I strip away the paint, I'm left with a mirror, and the reflection is only me, asking why I'm not enough. Admitting this is probably one of the most difficult things for me to do. I would much rather continue living in my delusional world ruled by fate and luck, waiting for the Universe to do all the work for me.
Luck has a way of making me feel at odds with the world.
I secretly believe my soul is made up of little bits and pieces of knowledge it has collected over the course of its journey. I'm also a believer in multiple soul mates. Just like one can have more than one best friend, so can one have multiple soul mates. If you believe that human lives can and indeed do transcend their earthly time frames, how can you argue against it? Out of all my best friends, though, beyond the people I grew up with, and deeper than my most intimate family connections, I feel a calling. It's a voice so distant I can barely even hear it, yet it's so true I always return to it. Whoever that voice belongs to has my heart and soul without question, and whenever I find them, luck will have had no part to play in it.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Virgo!
Even though summer isn't technically over until the fall equinox (in my belief system), academic school years have a way of making it seem cut short. One day you're relaxing in the back yard 300 feet from the lake sipping a beer in a hammock, then the next thing you know, bada bing bada bang bada BOOM you're back in class. To be fair though, that's not quite how I feel my summer "vacation" ended.
Four years ago I came to college fully intending on graduating on time like a normal person. Then friends happened... then alcohol... then DUIs... then whatta ya know it you're a fifth-year senior finishing two classes while juggling three jobs, a new apartment and the inevitable, inexhaustible romantic affairs that come hand-in-hand with new seasons, stages and chapters of life. I may be in a new slash incredibly familiar location, and I may be meeting new people left and right like freshman year all over again, but my summer still feels alive and well.
Decidedly, Monkey Island is my home. Not my home away from home, but home. My family is there--people who care so much about me I'm not sure I can fully comprehend it. It's a truly priceless thing to have such people in one's life, but I digress...
For the first time, I feel like an adult. A bonafide, certified, balls-to-the-wall adult. No car, a sparse supply of personal hygiene products, and a dream to live up to the expectations I've envisioned for my self since I was but a wee lad. I'm starting to remember my dreams, in fact, and the more I try, the easier it becomes to understand who I really am and what motivates me (not to mention what has been motivating me up til now). My intuition has never felt more trustworthy. Nothing but positivity guides me. No more sulky, dumpy, self-loathing for this guy! Look out, world! Well... Okay, look out, Oklahoma City! You may be one hot, windy, metro-sized truck stop but you're a start!
You're my start.
Uh oh... Here I go. My mother's words are still ringing loud and clear:
"Luke don't forget your helmet!"
Virgin shmirgin. I'll run circles around this city.
Four years ago I came to college fully intending on graduating on time like a normal person. Then friends happened... then alcohol... then DUIs... then whatta ya know it you're a fifth-year senior finishing two classes while juggling three jobs, a new apartment and the inevitable, inexhaustible romantic affairs that come hand-in-hand with new seasons, stages and chapters of life. I may be in a new slash incredibly familiar location, and I may be meeting new people left and right like freshman year all over again, but my summer still feels alive and well.
Decidedly, Monkey Island is my home. Not my home away from home, but home. My family is there--people who care so much about me I'm not sure I can fully comprehend it. It's a truly priceless thing to have such people in one's life, but I digress...
For the first time, I feel like an adult. A bonafide, certified, balls-to-the-wall adult. No car, a sparse supply of personal hygiene products, and a dream to live up to the expectations I've envisioned for my self since I was but a wee lad. I'm starting to remember my dreams, in fact, and the more I try, the easier it becomes to understand who I really am and what motivates me (not to mention what has been motivating me up til now). My intuition has never felt more trustworthy. Nothing but positivity guides me. No more sulky, dumpy, self-loathing for this guy! Look out, world! Well... Okay, look out, Oklahoma City! You may be one hot, windy, metro-sized truck stop but you're a start!
You're my start.
Uh oh... Here I go. My mother's words are still ringing loud and clear:
"Luke don't forget your helmet!"
Virgin shmirgin. I'll run circles around this city.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
What Four Years of College Has Taught Me
Food / laundry / Netflix / toothpaste / cell phones / textbooks / gym memberships / life in general all costs MONEY. Easy enough to understand; incredibly difficult to remember.
We all crave acceptance. Some people are just better at hiding it.
Just because someone's opinion may sound stupid, half-baked, asshole-ish, misogynistic or ignorant to me doesn't mean it's any less valid than my own.
Generally speaking, it's never a good idea to buy sushi from a store that also sells Flaming Hot Cheetos. (Or is it?....)
Sex always changes things.
People will disappoint me, not because they want to, but rather because I'll unintentionally hold them to unreasonable expectations.
Masturbation isn't something to be ashamed of.
For the sake of all that is holy, LUKE GO TO CLASS. Sixty percent (some days, I'd argue 80%) of success is finding the gumption to peel my ass out of bed after a night of binge drinking or heavy under-the-sweater action with the person who is most likely still sleeping next to me and just show up.
Friends come and go, but you'll always be stuck with yourself, so you better start liking who you are, and if you don't, then change.
The world is a much smaller place than you might think, and it's shrinking every day.
Unless I happen to win the lottery or get discovered by an agent while casually strolling through JFK International like Kate Moss did, my only hope for success is through hard work, which is really just another phrase for "investing time."
The chances of all my dreams coming true before I die is not only silly but also highly unlikely.
If I decide to teach a class of 3rd graders, I'd better be prepared to learn a shit ton about myself.
The root of anger is love.
Questioning everything is a double-edged sword. One day, I'm blowing my own mind with revelations about the universe. The next, I'm caught in the crossfires of my own personal existential crisis.
"For the Bible tells me so" isn't an acceptable rationale in the real world.
Neither is saying things like, "I'm not really attracted to black guys."
Soul mates are a myth. We live in a world of almost 8 billion people. Ergo, there have always been and will always be other fish in the sea, of which at least half are likely to be compatible with you.
The family that drinks together stays together.
Evolution isn't counterintuitive to religion.
People can't argue with kindness.
Freshman year of college can only be considered successful if you did any of the following: got a tattoo, smoked marijuana for the first time, gained at least fifteen pounds, lost your virginity, went a month without contacting any immediate family, got arrested, tried your hand at growing facial hair, developed an addiction, went to a music festival, failed a class solely because of absences, met a drag queen, lost your student ID at least three times, converted to a new religion, woke up in a different city, state or township than the night before, attended a political rally, joined more organizations than you actually cared about, got an STI, racked up enough student loan debt to fund the American prison system for a year, showed up to class drunk, used ChatRoulette, got caught masturbating by a roommate, pulled an all-nighter for no reason, played "Never Have I Ever," used a snow day as an opportunity to walk to the liquor store with your friends, adopted a pet, had an abortion, watched The Human Centipede or went skinny dipping in a hotel swimming pool.
We all crave acceptance. Some people are just better at hiding it.
Just because someone's opinion may sound stupid, half-baked, asshole-ish, misogynistic or ignorant to me doesn't mean it's any less valid than my own.
Generally speaking, it's never a good idea to buy sushi from a store that also sells Flaming Hot Cheetos. (Or is it?....)
Sex always changes things.
People will disappoint me, not because they want to, but rather because I'll unintentionally hold them to unreasonable expectations.
Masturbation isn't something to be ashamed of.
For the sake of all that is holy, LUKE GO TO CLASS. Sixty percent (some days, I'd argue 80%) of success is finding the gumption to peel my ass out of bed after a night of binge drinking or heavy under-the-sweater action with the person who is most likely still sleeping next to me and just show up.
Friends come and go, but you'll always be stuck with yourself, so you better start liking who you are, and if you don't, then change.
The world is a much smaller place than you might think, and it's shrinking every day.
Unless I happen to win the lottery or get discovered by an agent while casually strolling through JFK International like Kate Moss did, my only hope for success is through hard work, which is really just another phrase for "investing time."
The chances of all my dreams coming true before I die is not only silly but also highly unlikely.
If I decide to teach a class of 3rd graders, I'd better be prepared to learn a shit ton about myself.
The root of anger is love.
Questioning everything is a double-edged sword. One day, I'm blowing my own mind with revelations about the universe. The next, I'm caught in the crossfires of my own personal existential crisis.
"For the Bible tells me so" isn't an acceptable rationale in the real world.
Neither is saying things like, "I'm not really attracted to black guys."
Soul mates are a myth. We live in a world of almost 8 billion people. Ergo, there have always been and will always be other fish in the sea, of which at least half are likely to be compatible with you.
The family that drinks together stays together.
Evolution isn't counterintuitive to religion.
People can't argue with kindness.
Freshman year of college can only be considered successful if you did any of the following: got a tattoo, smoked marijuana for the first time, gained at least fifteen pounds, lost your virginity, went a month without contacting any immediate family, got arrested, tried your hand at growing facial hair, developed an addiction, went to a music festival, failed a class solely because of absences, met a drag queen, lost your student ID at least three times, converted to a new religion, woke up in a different city, state or township than the night before, attended a political rally, joined more organizations than you actually cared about, got an STI, racked up enough student loan debt to fund the American prison system for a year, showed up to class drunk, used ChatRoulette, got caught masturbating by a roommate, pulled an all-nighter for no reason, played "Never Have I Ever," used a snow day as an opportunity to walk to the liquor store with your friends, adopted a pet, had an abortion, watched The Human Centipede or went skinny dipping in a hotel swimming pool.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Breaking the Crystal Glass
Anytime I ask people what they think about aliens or extraterrestrial intelligence, the response is generally the same: "I've never really thought about it."
A certain handful, though, I've found, have thought about it. And those who have thought about it seem to share a similar disposition, one that, from my perspective, reflects the shimmering, unfailing spirit of hope that permeates human existence. For all the knowledge amassed in humanity's relatively short collective consciousness, nothing succeeds at nor even comes close to answering the greatest mystery still yet unsolved for us as a species living in a gigantic universe.
Are we alone?
I tend to think not. And from what I can observe, most people who spend at least some portion of their time thinking about this subject tend to agree. But why? Am I so hardwired for meaning and purpose that I'm willing to overlook my logic to reach a conclusion that may not have any shred of scientific evidence? Admittedly, yes, I am. I'm willing to believe in something beyond myself, in terms of intelligent life, which is something I find common in many religions. Yet the problem of proof remains.
There is no scientific proof for extraterrestrial intelligence. Let me qualify "proof" as simply meaning something that any logical person cannot refute and leave it at that. For every argument there is an equally valid argument on the other end of the proverbial spectrum just waiting to gobble up its evil twin. In a sense, proof requires more proof, and results must be replicable or else they hold no weight and no purpose for humanity as a whole.
So that's that. And with what little evidence upon which we can all agree, we find ourselves in the same position as our ancestors and those who came before them--staring up at the sky, waiting for a signal, some sort of sign, from something bigger than us, to let us know that we are not alone. It's a comforting prospect, and I'm not ashamed to say that I find comfort in it. The deepest part of my recognizable self just knows there's something out there, but that feeling alone holds no weight in any argument anywhere, because it can't be proven to anyone but me.
Be that as it may, I continue to hope, or, as I often feel, I continue to wait. The secrets of the universe, in my opinion, will never be known to me or anyone else living around me in our lifetimes. As frustrating as that may be, it's also quite humbling and incredibly mind-blowing to know that I'm part of something much larger than I may ever understand. Still, my boyish dreams of the crystal glass surrounding Earth shattering after a visitation from our cosmic brethren will always be in my heart, and I will never let it go. It's the type of faith I believe in.
A certain handful, though, I've found, have thought about it. And those who have thought about it seem to share a similar disposition, one that, from my perspective, reflects the shimmering, unfailing spirit of hope that permeates human existence. For all the knowledge amassed in humanity's relatively short collective consciousness, nothing succeeds at nor even comes close to answering the greatest mystery still yet unsolved for us as a species living in a gigantic universe.
Are we alone?
I tend to think not. And from what I can observe, most people who spend at least some portion of their time thinking about this subject tend to agree. But why? Am I so hardwired for meaning and purpose that I'm willing to overlook my logic to reach a conclusion that may not have any shred of scientific evidence? Admittedly, yes, I am. I'm willing to believe in something beyond myself, in terms of intelligent life, which is something I find common in many religions. Yet the problem of proof remains.
There is no scientific proof for extraterrestrial intelligence. Let me qualify "proof" as simply meaning something that any logical person cannot refute and leave it at that. For every argument there is an equally valid argument on the other end of the proverbial spectrum just waiting to gobble up its evil twin. In a sense, proof requires more proof, and results must be replicable or else they hold no weight and no purpose for humanity as a whole.
So that's that. And with what little evidence upon which we can all agree, we find ourselves in the same position as our ancestors and those who came before them--staring up at the sky, waiting for a signal, some sort of sign, from something bigger than us, to let us know that we are not alone. It's a comforting prospect, and I'm not ashamed to say that I find comfort in it. The deepest part of my recognizable self just knows there's something out there, but that feeling alone holds no weight in any argument anywhere, because it can't be proven to anyone but me.
Be that as it may, I continue to hope, or, as I often feel, I continue to wait. The secrets of the universe, in my opinion, will never be known to me or anyone else living around me in our lifetimes. As frustrating as that may be, it's also quite humbling and incredibly mind-blowing to know that I'm part of something much larger than I may ever understand. Still, my boyish dreams of the crystal glass surrounding Earth shattering after a visitation from our cosmic brethren will always be in my heart, and I will never let it go. It's the type of faith I believe in.
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