Did you know that if you like a particular post you can find more like it simply by clicking the header and scrolling down to categories and clicking the subject you like? Well, now you do!
Did you know that if you like a particular post you can find more like it simply by clicking the header and scrolling down to categories and clicking the subject you like? Well, now you do!
“I don’t know how to put this but, I’ll endeavor to explain.
I have a friend I’ve never met, and he doesn’t know my name.”
It started out when I saw his photograph and startled myself with an insight into his character. Of course, I’m a rational person. I tried to ignore it. What did I know about someone I’d never likely meet?
Only, It was extremely strange. His expressions and manner were very private yet, I couldn’t help contemplating him. Puzzling out bits of things my intuition told me about him.
I grew annoyed with myself. Viciously I tore at myself for what I considered my “frivolous” side. Indulging in this was foolhardy and childish. I decided to prove to myself that no man could possibly be this interesting. I didn’t care about faults. (I quite easily accept those in others). The thing my heart sought to disprove was this undeniable but inexplicable conviction that this person is kin to me even though I had 0 proof of why I felt this way.
I’d never met this guy before so I just couldn’t understand this acceptance of him. Like a friend I’d known was meant to be my whole life but couldn’t locate.
To be honest. It pissed me off.
I had been molested as a child, so trusting a man, any man, was something I attempted to flatly refuse. For a very long time I couldn’t even be alone in a room with a man. The bitterness of my life experience threatened, at that time, to destroy my faith in humankind as an abstract, and all men in particular.
So, my quest to understand myself and this strange affinity for someone I had never met, began with less benevolence and more rebellion.
The more I learned about him, the more pissed off I got, the problem was, rather curiously, because…I liked him. Dammit, I liked him! That wasn’t what I wanted to feel. Wasn’t what I wanted to learn.
I learned that this man is layered. Like an onion he has depth and intriques that my restless heart couldn’t help but be drawn to. I had a deep need to understand this enigma. Why did I like him?
For I did like him. Despite my every attempt to dismantle myself, I liked him. Dammit I liked him!
I liked his goofy manner and his stubborn tics. His intelligence and his sarcasm. In his youth, I think, he struggled with his inner demons. This anger he didn’t always understand. This need to challenge authority. His need to say something, but his frustration at not knowing exactly what it was he was fighting to say.
He seemed somewhat brash at times, a trait he often regretted because it destroyed opportunities he could later clearly see would have been easier than the paths he ended up walking due to his own arrogance. They call that “getting in your own way”
He’s contemplative and driven, so those early mistakes were learned deeply and earned him much wisdom. I don’t think, he would trade those lessons now.. though, at the time, I’m sure he was less than thrilled.
I believe his sensitivity sometimes alarmed him. Soo uncertain what to do with this side of himself. Sometimes, I think, he even hated it. Being sensitive can sometimes hurt more and his heart had too many plans and ideas. He would later come to embrace this aspect of himself, as he learned from others that this side of himself was of greater value than he’d ever dreamt.
His desire to prove himself to the people he respected, was the saving of him in many many ways. It forced him to feel and deal with old shadows. To face parts of his life he hadn’t previously. His own mortality.
He has always pushed himself to grow but, nowadays he respects himself and his instincts. He knows his worth and it gives him the strength to push away from situations that once poisoned his heart.
He’s always been very private. Protective of his fragile inner, but now, slowly, he is coming to trust others to properly see him. Trusts that the expression of his intent will be understood. He’s learned how to recognize and explain the way his mind works to others, having finally come to understand it himself.
He’s got confidence now and he’s mastered his temperment. Knows when time is needed for the balance to be maintained.
Takes his soul on a much needed break whenever it becomes obvious that he needs it.
His kindness has integrated into his lifestyle. Where he once pushed through and pushed past, now he melds and crafts his world around the core of himself. He changes the world to meet him and not himself, to meet the world.
I have contemplated this man. Seeing him helped me see myself. “If he can, I can” made itself my mantra.
I often worried I was much too concerned about this person. This person I had never even met. Was I being unhealthy? What right did I have to do this? Was I obsessing? Was I deflecting? Should I stop?
My answer to my worries was to make a firm rule. I would never interfere with this person’s life. I feel a kinship to him but, he owes me absolutely nothing. He is not my friend. I am his friend, and therein lies the line I will not cross.
With this integrity rule in place, I gave myself permission to just like him and I do. I have a tenderness toward him that I truly blush to reveal.
It’s a weird thing, this familiarity and tenderness towards someone I accept I will never meet or know. I struggle with myself over the right way to balance myself.
I have grown so much these past 10 years. Contemplating him has helped me. Oddly true. He isn’t some idol or god to me. It’s more like the way you’d feel after reading someone’s intimate diary and then learning they died 20-30 years before you were even born.
You feel like you care for them because you have truly seen them with your whole heart. you have seen them up and you’ve seen them down. You know the depth of them because you’ve learned their inner core somehow. The purity of seeing the true shade of a person. I like him because he is flawed and he is human. I like him because he is himself.
I count myself richer for the understanding of him in my life.
It’s a quiet thing this inner thinking place I turn to sometimes. This place that helps me heal. I may never understand just why this guy matters soo much to me. I just embrace the benefits and accept what is and what isn’t.
Thank you Anu, forever.
When I think of you
something strange happens.
Something unlike others
who patter on about
you giving them heart palpitations
every time you smile,
every time you speak.
every time you breathe.
My pulse doesn’t beat
it doesn’t break out in dance,
it slows down,
and goes steady.
Finds an anchor in your gaze.
Finds poetry in your silence.
Finds comfort in your smile.
Finds strength in your existence.
I have gazed upon your photographs too often,
settled into companionship.
In the presence of your gaze
If only you knew my name.
It doesn’t matter if you lose
all your money.
all your looks
all your fame.
Those things, aren’t really you
You’re the guy
Who bends down to see small things
Wanders away from the conversation
because his mind woke up.
Looks back and gets caught up
in yesterday’s goodbyes.
Sees the details until the details
are almost too many.
Keeps his heart protected
because it doesn’t know how
to stop loving,
once it does.
Nothing else matters.
I looked up mine, it was “Guardian of Sacred Wisdom” Then, I looked up yours. Much chuckling ensued, dude! (Excellent!)
Teach me the grace of a small deed.
The beauty in a task with no reward.
The joy in being present.
The gift in being silent.
Sometimes it’s not about appearances. The way you smile or the way you move. It’s not about money or intellect. It’s not about prestige or influence. It’s not any of those things.
Sometimes it’s about the small still voice that started things off, from the very beginning, and never stopped being true. The core truth of you that still resides within. I like you, because you are still in there. Still you, just older and wiser and perhaps, just a little less certain of things you once knew instinctively.
I know you and I don’t. I see you, but I don’t see all of you. Yet, I know enough to know that the first you, was the true you, unwrapped. I cannot forget that guy. He’s goofy and lovable. Jumps in without thinking because he just trusts that he will be understood eventually. Deep sensitivity and even deeper sincerity.
I am a fan of the very first you. I have watched you change and evolve over time. Become someone confident and secure in his own worth. Someone others regard as an expert. Someone to be respected and sought for advice. He is something amazing, this person you have become. I like him too, but I have always liked him, because he is still you, he’s always been in there, that guy, if you looked for him. People just didn’t see him at first. You polished him up, but he was always a real bright penny.
You have always been someone to admire. Kind and gentle with your words. Listening and trying to sincerely do well because you wanted to be part of the whole that was created.
Even when you were uncertain and untried. Even when you messed up and fell down. Even when you wanted to burn down the world in your pain.
You have always been my favourite person. Time changes and years pass, but some things are unchanging.
Who you are isn’t in your name, it’s in your heart. It isn’t in your resume, it’s in your history.
You are not what you do. You are, and have always been, a star.
Dear Man with 5 Typewriters,
I don’t get it, why do people take photos of you leaving the hotel or at the airport? It makes 0 sense to me. Don’t you do that stuff a lot? Like, 100 times a year or something? It’s repetitive and seriously unnecessary.
While I like to see your face, (and thus determine how you are doing) on occasion, I find myself skipping these types of photos. They annoy me to no end. These are the kinds of places I think one should be left well enough alone.
Movie premieres or some special events, sure..but…you are a person and not a thing.
I don’t get it. I wouldn’t like someone taking my photo after work when I’m smelly and really tired, I can’t imagine you would like it any better than I would.
People are weird.
Dear Man with 5 Typewriters, I sat down today and wrote a friend my story. I hadn’t thought about it before, but, in order to write something down, you have to think about it first. While writing my story I thought about my story at the same time. How to explain and share what deeply affected me and also make it relevant to her, else, why tell the story at all?
Writing down my story, I realized it was a singular viewpoint, mine. I never share painful stories because generally they are about someone doing something to you, and if that person has a shades-of-grey relationship with you, they might get hurt by you being so honest about how you saw things. They mightn’t agree about that viewpoint you just shared. Mostly cause they have their own.
It’s strange, I thought to myself (whilst thinking all this stuff over) how writers (myself included in this presumptively) try to inspire someone with a story primarily written in such a way as to illicit a reaction from them. They craft it and shape it specifically to nudge people into seeing something in the way they need them to see it. It might be considered shifty, if you think about it that way, a kind-of manipulation. The thing is though, writers have to do that, write in such a way as to get at your emotions..cause that’s where the real thinking happens to people. The place they are vulnerable.
My story was crafted, but it was still my story, and still painful and truthful as I could be without breaking down into pieces I’d already done put back together. I decided to write it, even whilst uncertain about telling a story that shades-of-grey person might get upset over. Because, this is my truth, this story and my viewpoint, though it might not be their viewpoint, still matters. How can one change a viewpoint or heal, if they never express it properly?
So, yeah, stories are crafted with a purpose in mind. The writer wants you to feel their feelings, so they craft it in such a way as forces you to see them. It’s a bit raw and painful, but it has to be, to help you understand that it was raw and painful at the time they lived it. Crafted work has an unwritten code of honor that hinges on integrity. That way, though the reader knows you are leading them somewhere, they also know you are leading them there by being honest. That the story isn’t just crafted, it’s the truth.
It was insight that made me write it that way. Insight into how my pain could help heal her pain, if I explained it right. If my love came through. If she saw that it was painful to me, but I was still sharing it, because she matters. That’s why I wrote it. Because she matters and I need her to know that I have been where she is standing. My pain isn’t her pain, she has a different sort, I’m sure..but it is enough like it to have the same brand name, even if it is a different color and cut.
I shared my story, and found myself healing while hoping to heal.
Funny how that happens.
I thought of you today. As the sky turned inky black and silhouettes of trees began to appear. It made me remember your gaze and the way it brings that same still moment. Gazing at the trees in the dark is like holding someone’s hand. It makes me feel peaceful. Why does my heart palpitate to your gaze? It’s random and strange, but so familiar, at this point, I barely question it anymore.
I don’t mind silence. I chatter throughout the day endlessly. Some would tell you I am never quiet, but they would be wrong. The silence is my gift to myself when my day is done. Time just to be my thoughts.
During the day I am chipper and talkative. It’s a learned behavior that all introverts cultivate. The “work face”. The mask I wear to give my inner self needed distance and privacy while still remaining available to others who constantly demand assistance. It’s not my true face all the time, it’s just one of the faces I put on to be acceptable to others who don’t really want to look any deeper.
The real me is somewhat in the middle, depending on whom I’m with. The me I am at night, is the me I like best. Silent but happy. Contemplative and curious.
The birds are slowly growing quieter. The darkness is almost complete. There are living home sounds happening. Dryer and washer buzzing with muted sound. Someone is walking up the stairs making them creak.
I’m thinking about you. How each photograph taken of you reveals different angles of your face, but still manages not to convey the true you completely. Your face is never the same twice. Your eyes though, they continue to be my favorite contemplation. So many thoughts un-shared with anyone. It makes me curious, but in a way that’s content with not knowing your secrets. I’m just happy and silent.
I wonder if there will be stars.
Dear Man with 5 Typewriters, I found myself wondering today what you look forward to after a long day of everyone in your face, and I decided, that if it were me, I’d just want someone to hear my voice. Someone to listen to me and not ask for anything from me. Someone to make me laugh and forget stressful rushing and all the details that I have to check and recheck each day. Someone to pamper me, just a bit. So, here goes.
More than anything, I think you need someone who sees you, not your face, your position, or the trail of your past. Just you, right now. The you that is a person, slightly tired from work and needing to be seen as himself.
So, this is my somewhat awkward attempt to be there for you. I’m going to chatter at you now, the way I would if I were there with you. Interrupt as much as you want. That’s part of being there for each other. (I really hope you’re not thinking I’m nutso cutlet..I mean, I am kinda..but this is the best I can do to cheer you up)
You just walked in…
“Dude, you look mega tired. Get in the tub, I added a bath bomb in there and it smells like vanilla and green tea. It’s piping hot and I just put a towel in the dryer so jump in and forget everything but the feeling of bubbles and water. You’ve got cute feet.”
“I have a pitcher near the floor, so I can wash your hair. My mum use to wash my hair this way so I know it helps relieve stress. Stop looking at me like that, this is totally ok, just keep your bits covered proper-like. Sheesh, you really are shy.”
“Ok, done. Now finish washing up after this Brown Eyed Soul track ends. I’m going to get you something to eat. The towel is on the toilet lid, all warm from the dryer. Take your time..Brown Eyed Soul is meant to be meandered through. I put some pajama pants and a t-shirt in there with you.”
“Here, I got you a hot pastrami sandwich, with russian and mustard. With a sliced up dill pickle and a Coke. Of course I got chips! Who do you think I am? I got your back! Oh, I didn’t forget the chocolate chip cookie, it’s in the microwave ready for 10 seconds heating to make it perfection. You should never doubt me.”
” I know you usually like Kung-fu movies, but I think you might need a bit of laughter, so I got Kung-fu Panda cued up for us to watch. Just wait, in 30 minutes you’ll be way more relaxed.”
See, laughter is the best. I totally pretended I didn’t see you drifting off a little. I totally get it. Today was rough. Thanks for not laughing when I cried over an animated movie or getting annoyed when I yelled at the screen.
You have totally seen this movie anyway…stop pretending you haven’t. Did too. Did too. Did. Toooooooo.
Ok, Time for you to go to bed. Nuh-uh, put that work junk away. I totally saw that face, work is done for the day workaholic…I saw that face part 2 also….I’m going to finish up by reading to you. Lie down on the couch. Because your bedroom is too personal, you’ll blush more than you did in the bath dude.
I’m reading The Cerulean’s Secret by Dennis Meredith, I know you’ve never read it, that’s why I picked it. You’ll like it, it’s perfect for you.
He’s asleep. (Smile)
Cover him up. Turn down the light.
Slip out after locking the door.
Good night Typewriter Key.
(Ok, so I know I can’t really do all that, but…I want to ease your heart..so..maybe listen to the music, read the book preview, and smile…because you know someone cares about you. The real you. The tired you. The you that understands that, though I’m awkward, I’m sincere. Yeah, I’m kinda dorky, but you like that about me, right?)
Dear Man with 5 Typewriters,
I have learned that with each success comes a moment of concern. A challenge to your soul, to make you humble perhaps, and sometimes in a bid to crack you open, they misunderstand, on purpose, just to appear wiser and more in control. It’s annoying because your first dream is to have them celebrate with you, but instead they question all your choices.
I have learned these things will always come, not because of you, but because of them. They don’t understand because they can’t. They can only see backwards, which is why you exist in a perpetual state of explanation that they can’t understand until your today catches up to their tomorrow.
This is why trail blazers feel so alone on their path. They see the framed form but not the solid structure, and that works for them. They accept the truth that an idea changes to suit itself, and will, in the end, be what it chooses to be. The others cannot get past the need to touch a thing before they believe in it.
I heard today was a rough one.
This one’s for you:
1) You mentioned that one of your “I wish I could have” roles includes Han Solo.
Total Woot!! If you add Indiana Jones on there too I am totally onboard awesome city. (That means I approve your selection)
Side note: The Song “Ridin Solo” by Jason Derulo made my sister laugh at me for at least 20 minutes because I thought he was saying “Han Solo”. Apparently I wasn’t alone as they came out with this online:
2) Every time you say the name of the band (Becky) in interviews, I totally hit rewind because “He totally just said my name!!” (It’s a ME thing.)
1) Is it weird that I knew which guy you were out of the four, in the clip, just by the way you sit a motorcycle? Cause, I’m admitting nothing.
2) Mildly amused to realize you are the type to go get ice cream at 2 am. (This is oddly how I know you are one of my people. Stop looking horrified by that comment. You’ll adjust)
I would choose the most circuitous route to your heart.
Not just for the journey, but for the extended exposure to your radiant smile.
My awareness lacks omnipresence.
I meander forth with a fretted edge
of hopeless certainty and untethered ambiguity.
There is no absence of thought,
there is only immersive connectivity
that leads ever forward,
into the trail of contemplative respect,
that is my heart,
These parts don’t fuse together
They never did.
Just a suit that suits me
and a past I hid.
An impossible task
My past deeds
I’m not your weapon
Not your tool to use.
With the first shot
you lit my fuse.
I am John.
I am Wick.
This time I choose.
Let’s get wicked.
Dear Man with 5 typewriters,
I don’t like pineapple on my pizza. Pineapple is one of my favorite fruits, but on pizza it sucks up the ham flavor and makes the pineapple taste like ham fruit. Yuck.
Pineapple is best straight off the knife. Chilled and hopefully accompanied by a side of whipped cream to dip it into.
I didn’t know what a pudendum was either, I looked it up though, and it made me snort-laugh. I also looked up Vajazzle. Um….you might not want to know, just consider the word up above and add stick-on jewels. Yeah, people are weird.
Ps. I’m not that bored…EVER.
Because it’s him. The real him. Right there. Himself.
This makes me happy.
Proper photo credit: Men’s Fitness Magazine. February 2017 Edition.
Seriously the funniest show ever. I think I broke my liver.
Keanu’s expression when Whoopi explained about the Pudendum was just classic. I was fine until she explained and added “There’s more to it but you have to come” which had an unintended double meaning considering the topic. I completely lost it seeing Keanu’s expression when he caught it.
I may never breathe again.
I always adore Norton Graham, but that was hands-on the funniest thing I have seen so far this year.
I seriously love Whoopi Goldberg.