Looking back while walking forward

It didn't take long, maybe only ten minutes, to read all of the scattered entries I've written in this public space over the past six months. There is so much smiling that must be done when I realize how far I am from where I thought I'd be. I believe it was an entry that I wrote in March that mentioned the importance of traveling through the United States so I could find the American dream. Well, I don't know much, but I think that looking for the American dream in Australia might not be the most realistic path. It wasn't long ago that I was set on driving across my country alone. It wasn't long ago that I was in winter, wondering whether or not I had the guts to finish those last few months of school, whether or not I was stubborn enough to go on with my plan. Well I had the guts to get through and I drank a lot, which helps stubborn people avoid anything but their own narrow minded stubborness, and continued on my cute little journey.

No, I'm not mocking myself. Yes I am. Ha. The truth is that the points of life that cause the most intense realizations, that come with tears and screams of, "what the fuck do I do with this?," well it's those points that should be mocked. I was amidst an intense apology to my new roommates the other night for being so aggressive with my negativity over recent days when something happened. There I was, begging for forgiveness from old friends and new family, when one of them looked at another with her finger over her lip. She had drawn a fake mustache on it while I was talking. I was in the middle of baring my soul and suddenly the two women nearby erupted with giggles which showed me a thing or two. If things are so intense, if a moment is so heartfelt that it could bring tears, if someone is demanding serious attention, just draw a fake mustache on your finger and giggle at them. It helps. It humbles. It's good to laugh, no matter when, and no matter what was going on before we laughed.

It's sometimes hard to find a song when I am writing. A lot of the time I spend writing, I'll be listening to a single song on repeat, letting a song that reflects my emotion and understanding accompany my moment so that I have the combination of melody and madness to get the right words out. I haven't found the song today. I hit next and the next song comes, but none have matched this feeling that I have. Its a feeling that I don't know, but every feeling is a combination of the simple feelings. It's like primary colors. All we need is a few colors to make every color. All we need is a few emotions to feel everything.

Ah. It happened. Got the song. Want to know what it is? Well, thats not important now. I have things to say. There were a few realizations after I read through my previous entries. It became immediately apparent that I was more stubborn than I would ever need to be. Well, maybe not. Maybe that drive was the thing that helped me get through the task of graduating college. So many people, for so long, told me it wasn't possible. Maybe I had to have that ego chest puffing session to get through. Still, I see someone confident but unaware. Even though much of my writing had bits of truth to it. I also realized that I repeat myself a lot. There are times when I, unaware of it at the moment, write the exact same things a few months apart. It's good to write things down and look back at them. It is helping me to take stock of what to do next and my previous rants are providing me with invaluable amounts of information on who I was so I can truly see the difference between that and who I am. Last night I shaved my beard. I bought a new shaver to trim the hair and keep the chin strap style face blanket that has covered my cheek bones for years, but the trimmer didn't work. I had to use scissors to get through the first few inches of the matted fur and then realized that I just needed to get it off. So I shaved my face with a razor. I removed my little wall and was astounded to see a face I didn't even recognize, hiding underneath. I have hesitated at the thought of saying it, but now I have to let it be heard. I've killed of Fester, the madman I was. And I've become Alex Raeburn, the madman I always hoped to be. Yes, madness never leaves. I like that about myself, and about life. But what has left is the pigheaded confidence of ignorance. It has been gently replaced by a mental step back and a man who looks and smiles because that is the best solution at any time.

I wanted to write something about addiction and fear. I will do this. These words are merely a preview. There is an extreme bond between addiction and fear, if we can even see them as separate. They are one and the same. On this, my eighth day of being a non smoker, I can look back at last week and know that smoking has always been much more than smoking to me. It was a constant excuse and it made room for other constant excuses. All addictions give us something to do when we don't know what to do. They replace the journey we all take, or moments of it, with the sense of comfort that only repetition, only stagnation, can bring. Even weed is an addiction to me. When things happen, when anything happens good or bad, when things get intense, I reach for something on the outside. I reach for a smoke or a joint, or a beer or a pill. I've changed my intake of these substances drastically in the past five years but I have trouble letting go of that little toke of weed every day. It's not just getting high to me. It's another physical representation of the indulgence in fear. Oh gosh, I'm so anxious that I need to get high. Really? Cause I bet you'll still be alive tomorrow, either way. If I don't have weed, what will I do? Take a deep breath. But I need SOMETHING? Ha, you've already got everything and breathing will let you see that. Maybe I won't stop smoking weed today. Well, maybe I won't ever believe that I can stand strong through everything and anything. This isn't some speech against weed. I need you all, whoever reads this, to know that weed is far less of a crutch than any other substance I have come in contact with. It is the lesser of many evils, but for those who search for any and all escapes, those who want to learn on a substance even after they've given up everything else, weed is just the last thing that is acceptable to hold on to. Most people get high and enjoy it. I feel like I'm responding to a need. It is detrimental in the end, for me. Besides, smoking weed and not smoking weed are very similar. In fact, they're so closely related that the only difference I can say is that you're just not high when you don't smoke. Is life better or worse when stoned? Not really. I mean a good talk or even a tasty sandwich has more effect on my body and mind than a toke of grass. Funny how life works. I'll write about the addiction/fear dilemma at some point. This is just a taste. Just one hit of truth, from my head, the place where truth doesn't mean much until it is there every day, through good and bad, and never stops saying the same thing. Time to be the monk. TIme to stop pretending.

So much to say. So much to say, but the flow is different than the other day. It happens. Words pour out like a waterfall on one day, and then they slow to the trickle of a bathroom sink the next. Tis life. Up and down. Tis honest. Tis. Love that word. I think its a word. If not, I declare it an unword. Hm. Idea. I'll write a book, an entire book, with unwords. Do you know what I mean? Funny if you do cause I haven't the slightest clue what it would look like, even though I know it could be done. Ah sillyness. I like it when my mind and fingers put out words that act the same as the curly black mustache my friend drew on her finger the other night during my dramatic moment. Time to laugh. Time to continue the adventure and get over the past. Time to let go and grab onto something new. New habits and new thoughts. A new look. A new man. Nice to meet, me. Thats what I have to say when I look in the mirror. It's so strange not having a beard for the first time in years. I walked by some glass store fronts today and kept looking at them like, who is this guy walking in my clothes at the exact same speed as me? I wonder what he thinks and what he feels. I wonder what this man is capable of. It's strange and inspiring. I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy, I mean that guy Fester, the one with the beard, he was nutty as a loon, but he had a good heart. Let's see what happens now, in this new life.

I am writing like I had hoped to. There was a moment last night, a moment after shaving when I was looking at this weird face through the fog of the wet mirror, when I realized how many pages I had written during the day. I thought about how I could measure how many pages I was writing per hour, for the hours that I am awake. I then thought how exciting it will be to measure the pages in the hours of the day, including those few when I rest in bed. I've been writing more than I have to say, which is weird but somehow makes sense. Maybe I didn't realize how much I really had to say and how much this journey would really mean. That's what I was thinking when I looked in the mirror. Then I smiled slightly with this new face and thought, "Holy shit. Maybe I will actually get a book done."

There have been many moments in life where I measure myself with my writing. Then I don't write enough and find peace in other ways, in talking to a friend, or walking and smiling at the sky. Those are the days I set out to write and end the day with, "Well, at least I made someone smile." I enjoy measuring myself like this. Have I done something positive today? If the answer is yes than be as happy as if you were Buddha. If not, let it go and be as happy as Buddha. There's always tomorrow. Now its different. I used to find the time to be a good friend and I'd find that experience so exhausting that I would resign myself to couch sitting for the rest of the day. Now I find myself finishing a conversation and not being able to linger. The tv is on and I've got better things to do. I'm glad to have had this moment with you, whoever you are, but I must excuse myself now because I need to write. I NEED to write. It's never felt like that before. Now I can't help but feel like writing a book, writing any book, would be effortless. I mean I am vomiting words like a drunk after a night of whiskey and heartbreak. I might as well let it fall into the bucket and see what it looks like when it is all sitting together.

People ask what I write and I never know what to say. Yes, I write poetry and stories but that's not what I really write. This is what I write. This is it. This is the start of a method of emotional searching and soul discovering that needs the writing to make sense of it all. This is the same outpouring of words that has always come but now I have a new level of honesty and a new lever of forgiveness for myself and the past. I need to write. But I need to follow my heart, as well. It's time to end these words and go back to the other side; living the story. I need to call the woman I love and hear her voice. Then, it's off to the post office to mail out a letter to a Buddhist retreat center, asking them if I can stay there for a month and work instead of paying. I know good will come. I know this is good, this moment. It's time to spend my days writing and meditating. There is no other answer. It's time to take stock of who I have become and where I fit in this vast universe. Too bad I need to get a job and spend time making money, in order to survive. Good thing I know how to make anything worth doing. I've given meaning to being a bus boy. Now I have a college degree, and a clean shaven face. I aspire to love openly and honestly, to challenge myself continuously, to forgive and understand that which I never could, and to sit in whatever it is that every moment brings while smiling and looking at each emotion, greeting it with these words, "It's nice to see you."