1-2-3 Green Light

I've managed to purge a lot of my obsessions.

I do laundry as needed; the piles of dirty clothing in our bedroom are a testament to my progress. I dust only when the dustbunnies threaten to claim dominion of our space. I make the bed, but rarely.

I’ve realized that while I have scant recollection of my extensive Saturday cleaning sprees, I have wonderful memories of weekends spent at the ocean or in the mountains with my rara.

Make no mistake, I’m far from cured. I’m inclined to polish the Rolex at the mere hint of a blemish, and the phone is rubbed clean of prints with each handling. If compulsion is obsession’s shadow, then I’m now frightened of shadows.

None of my mania compares to my fixation on that tiny green light. I wish the Droid had multi-colored signals¬¬—yellow means proceed with caution, red the sign of certain rejection. The color I pray for is green.

Green is affirmation. Green means go. Green clears the path so that I can take my gaze off the ground and crook it toward the sky…

The Wish is Father to the Fear

"The wish is father to the fear," my therapist tells me.

I look at him quizzically knowing he'll wait patiently for me to ask outright, "What does that mean."

"That what you fear you secretly wish." he answers.

"So if I'm afraid of dying then I'm secretly wishing I'd die?" I ask, opting for the most extreme example, hoping to stump his little theory.

"Part of you, yes." He answers, flexing his unstumable brain.

"Interesting."

"Let's ally it to your example that you're afraid you'll get fired from your job. You repeatedly talk about not wanting to get fired, yet you keep getting in trouble. And if behavior reveals what a person really wants, then it stands to reason that deep down, your intention is to get fired."

"You don't seriously believe that I'm trying to get fired, do you?" I ask.

"Not consciously, no. But it's important to reiterate that 90% of all decisions are made on an unconscious level, and if that's true, then unconsciously yes, you want to get fired."

"But I don't want to get fired." I say.

"I disagree." He says.

"Dude, I'm telling you, I-don't-want-to-get-fired."

"I hear what your saying, but it's incongruent with how you act, and not wanting something to happen is different than being afraid it will happen. The wish is father to the fear."

"Stop saying that!"

"You want me to stop speaking the truth?"

"No, of course not, but...see...I'm afraid but...god damn it...you got me all fucked up." I bark.

"I'm quite sure I didn't fuck you up, someone did, but it wasn't me." he says.

"Smug prick." I mumble.

He smiles.

"OK, so I wish they'd fire me." I lie.

"Keep going." he says.

"Then I can be poor, lose my insurance, be thrown out on the street, and be a homeless loser."

"I think we've stumbled on something here." he interrupts.

"Wha?" I ask, slack jawed.

"That last part." he answers.

"Homeless loser?"

"That very last part." he says.

"Loser." I whisper.

"If you didn't unconsciously think you were a loser..." he's goading me to finish.

"Then I wouldn't wish to get fired."

He marinates me in his self righteous stare. I wonder if he can hear me berating him with every swear combination I know, and a few new ones.

MultiPlease

Please.

You could call it a prayer, but I'm not sure I believe in God.

You could call it a request, but it fails to telegraph the desperation.

You could call it politeness, but I'm beyond that.

Please.

It rolls around inside my head every time I dream of the possibilities. It preambles the mantra that there will be no harder worker, no more determined promoter, no more enthusiastic a marketer.

Please.

But it's also a plea to the universe for redemption. An affirmative answer allows me to transcend, like Phoenix, into the unknown. It permits me to sigh years of baited breath.

It gives me a chance to let go.

But there are times that defiance creeps in. Please is demanding, like I'm owed.

Please, I am owed.

And should the universe deny me, please is my excuse to refuse plan B, to give up on writing. Please is the anvil that collapses the parachute of gratitude, plunging me into self pity.

Then please will be the answer to looking on the bright side, Maybe it's all for the best...

Please.

For now, I'll use it to hush the myriad of thoughts, good and bad, that hurl at me everyday. I've never been this close...I'm almost there...But what if it doesn't work...What if they hate it...I'll be stuck in purgatory forever...

Please!

Bryan The Great?

I read presidential biographies hoping they'll reveal what makes men great.  

I go to church and watch men of faith profess God's greatness, but they all seem to ignore the fact that understanding greatness on God's level can only lead to an unabashedly prime example of how far we are from achieving it.

Yet I wonder what legacy I'll leave behind, if anyone will consider me a great man.

I guess it all depends on the yardstick. Measuring greatness depends on the scale. Great can be simply doing the right thing. So in that sense I've fallen short.

One could say I'm a great survivor. But surviving is merely the ability to wait out a struggle. Although overcoming adversity doesn't render one great, falling and getting back up does.

Sometimes I measure greatness by way of accomplishment, accumulation, and status, but using this scale leaves room for scoundrels.

Maybe it lies in simplicity, peace of mind, or morality. Not necessarily in a religious sense, but an ideological one. Perhaps greatness is merely self-actualization leading to an unshakable foundation of belief in oneself that leads others to admiration. Maybe it's being a husband, model employee, or responsible citizen.

Or maybe the genesis of greatness begins with the question; just like neither the chicken nor the egg could have preceded the idea of such, maybe defining greatness will help me achieve it.

So here goes...greatness is---

Trying to be better than I was yesterday.

God's House

I have a vivid memory of my hungover mother's voice demanding I get up and get ready for church. The Catholic Church frowns on denim and leaves the wearing of such heathen garb to inmates and atheists. That day Mom forced us to dress in our Sunday best. But it doesn't matter how nice the ribbon looks on a bowl of rotten fruit, it still stinks. Mom spent the entire hour of church refereeing our abominable behavior. She had to separate Kev and I, putting me near Jess, which wasn't any better. With no one to pester, Kev fell asleep, prompting mom to nudge him like a NHL player nudges an opponent.

During communion, just as she thought we settled down, I'd leaned over and asked, "Hey Mom, am I supposed to chew the cookie?"

To which she yelled, "It's not a god damn cookie."

After taking the Lord's name in vain, she ushered us out, screaming at us the whole ride home. We spent the remainder of Sunday morning in lock down. Kev escaped out his window, Jess nodded off, and I snuck down to watch the faithful sin box.

No institution has garnered more bad press recently than the Catholic Church.  The child abuse scandal of the last decade has publicized the secrecy and deception within the Church, tools the Catholic theocracy uses to conceal its shameful behavior.  Though the child abuse is responsible for enormous damage, the decline of the Church began long before this outrage.  The true failing of the Church lies in its refusal, or perhaps even inability, to evolve.  Like all living, breathing entities, it must adapt or die.  Some changes call for major revisions of doctrine.  Maybe priests should be allowed to marry, or women should be allowed entry to the priesthood, or gays, well, maybe gays should be allowed something, anything at all.  Even barring these major changes, the Church has not evolved in small ways--like a meaningful service or sermon, Sunday school for children, music that evokes emotion, liveliness, spirit...  Consequently, followers of this rigid faith are finding comfort, love, joy, community, and God in other places.

So, the stage was ripe for churches like The Vineyard to sprout with a new attitude, call it "no pressure sales."  Rachel and I went to The Vineyard this morning for Sunday service. We were greeted at the door with smiles, no wait, with ear to ear grins.  A friendly man interrupted us as we looked in awe at a sign that read, "Food and Drink Welcome. Lids are Appreciated." Wait, coffee in church?  In fact, free coffee and bagels were served in the cafe in the next room. Wait, a cafe in the next room?  Friendly, welcoming people, too? 

There was no ornate altar, just an unassuming stage with instruments. We were guided to padded, comfortable chairs. There were no petrified pews, no stuffy old fart priests, standing high above us in a pulpit condemning us unless we contributed 15% of our gross, not net, to the church.

Rachel and I sipped our delicious (french press) coffee while listening to the pastor, who sat gingerly behind an electric piano, asking us to open our hearts, and join him in praising the Lord. He burst into song, accompanied by guitar, bass, and soaring voices.  It might have been the most exhilarating experience I've ever encountered. Until the sermon...

Pastor Dave spoke of our expectations of love, how we assume love to be romantic, that love is more than that, and that in a nutshell, God loves us. Granted, he was funny, completely unlike any sermon I'd ever heard, but it smacked of the same old, repackaged homily.

Yet the parishioners and Pastor Dave exude peace. It's hard to picture them depressed, and if they ever are, they turn to God. Later this afternoon, riding bikes down Memorial Drive, I felt Him. He may not have been there at that moment, but He's been there.

God has to be the largest real estate owner in the universe. He has a house in every town, every city, in multiple zip codes, often on the same street, so we'll continue our search for Him. We're just not sure which house He's staying in at the moment, but we're hopeful just the same. 

Insanity Defined

Let's celebrate the individual who first looked at a plant and reasoned that it could be cultivated, then transformed into the fine white powder so sought after today. It takes ingenuity to look at vegetation and see a multi billion dollar industry. I wonder if she knew... Could she even have fathomed the power of that funny white powder?

Some believe it to be highly addictive while others claim the rush is psychological. When it hits my blood stream, I feel it instantly, and my heart races. What some call euphoria, I call elation. If you're not careful, you'll fall into a full fledged habit, using just to keep the edge off. In large doses it causes anxiety. Beware of the crash that leaves many listless, tired, and horribly depressed.

I use daily and can't stop. What's worse, I don't want to. I rapaciously crave it every minute.

Despite ample warnings of the dangers, it still permeates most every facet of my life. You won't find anyone that hasn't been affected, some with devastating consequences. You see it on the subway, droopy eyed sloths, just awaiting their next fix, and they'll get it because it's that easy to find...

I know the first step is to recognize I have a problem. OK. I am sugar's bitch...

Dad Vs. Walt

What attracts me to shows like Breaking Bad? Rachel asks constantly about my infatuation with characters who tread the line between savior and wretch. I argue that it's the superb writing, or the depth of character that ensnares me, but it's more...

Following a diagnosis of advanced lung cancer, Walt starts a meth lab to stockpile cash for his family before he dies. What ensues is an exploration of a man who reaps all the rewards crime has to offer, without the consequence. It's the consequences that make the show so compelling.

I watch the show, and others like it, with a unique eye. I've been there. From this perspective, the show rings true. The writers must be ex-drug dealers to write with such realism.

I can write this, I tell myself.  

Where would I start? From experience. A show about a father and two sons robbing jewelry stores might make compelling television. Walt is desperate. Dad wasn't. Walt is virtuous and tainted by the trade. We were just tainted. Walt does what he does for his family, feels regret, and knows what he's doing is wrong. Dad would do it again. 

I watch Walt in hopes of understanding Dad. At sentencing, the judge said: This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time. I wonder if my father thinks about his legacy and what he'll leave behind. A treasure map? Maybe I can write the next Indiana Jones.

Maybe the writers of Breaking Bad can weave some sympathy into Dad. It might take an overhaul, a sex change, and fifty one flashbacks to get there, but I'm willing to bend if they are.