Pages torn from a hustler's journal: 9

Weekend closed, pulled through every hurdle, watched cycles run full circle. If life purpose is fulfilled in the moments when genuine action impacts richly, then those nodes that spark can postcard like prose shards, when flow just arcs, like a Jacob’s Ladder waking patter. How many times did lil Max have hard moments yesterday, breaking down and crying over the slightest upsets? It’s hard to be 9 years old, hard when you don’t have a father. He didn’t cry from tumbling from the skateboard, just did a proper breakfall, shoulder-roll and recovery the first time. Textbook slapfall the second time, even accordioned his arms to keep from Superman’ing the slide so he didn’t struggle-snuggle with gravel and come out looking like Deadpool with his mask off. No tears, no emotional reaction, just leaned into the stress, rode the bliss from the delirium off the recovery. Skateboarding isn’t an easy thing to learn and Max doesn’t give up. Makes me so proud of him. Same kid though, a few hours later, broke down in tears from spilling syrup on a table and thinking he’d become a disappointment, later on still from overhearing his mother tell me she took a week’s paid vacation in secrecy. Max wasn’t even in the room, just overheard talk about an overworked mom, stretched thin, saying she was playing hermit, but she’d hit me up on her birthday but keep it quiet, don’t let FB and hence her friends know about our plans. (‘Cause that’s the shit Noah does. Put the private on blast, make sure every fucking Queen knows she might as well be signed in neon and krylon across an overpass. That’s how I maintain my life, yo) Max melted and cried, immediately thinking he’d be missing out, missing his mother on her birthday. 3rd meltdown of the day. All of them paired with extreme conclusions, tied in with self-worth, place. Pattern clicked. I sat with my nephew and explained to him how emotional maelstroms work. Let him know that his body was getting used to feeling things, in the most extreme. Told him that his feelings were potent, real, and valid. But the triggers, the reasons were false. “Hey Max, I’m the same way. It’s kinda fucked up, really. ‘Cause I’m 40. And I still get sad sometimes, for no reason. Or just because the world is big, life is really big and I’m small. But when that happens, and I suddenly get sad, I have to make sure not to search for a reason. Because feelings are real. But reasons is just decoration for your wounds. What you’re feeling is so real. But there’s no real trigger externally. There’s no lack of love coming from your mom. That’s Cherish, man. That’s Earth Woman. Your mom loves you more than anything and so do I. I’ll always be here for you Max. That’s why I’m here every Sunday. And I wish I could tell you that someday these feelings will go away, but that would be a lie. Some day you’ll just learn how to integrate. But the source is private. No Clue cards this time. It’s another melody inside, Max. I’m sorry you feel the way you do. But your mom and I love you and that’s why we’re here.” I stayed and watched his face change, watched him process. His mother waited, maybe instinctively, until a shift before holding him. There’s a certain fugue by Bach kinda rhythm to that, and its an important dynamic tension loop to note. You can’t give comfort to a creature on the precipice of a breakthrough. The breach of awareness whereby the old is shed has to happen. You find yourself in those solitary valleys between the peaks and troughs of a high contrast life. Hug the boy too soon and you end up with a little bitch later on in life. Oh, he might be financially successful, have pecs and abs and a baritone voice, but ask any real man and we’ll give you a million examples of that grown up man child losing his shit over his feelings, and then taking it out on his life or world, projecting and twisting. Don’t hug the boy at all though, and he ends up like those deliberately neglected orphans in the Milgram study. The resolute fire is real. Judging from what Max’s absentee sperm-donor is though, turbulent emotions, a whole basket of heuristics from the epigenetic side and a deck of wildcards is in the future. Do one thing right, Loki keeps saying? For sure. Don’t let nature win on this one. Renaissance Beowulf man. The ride willfully drops into a daze. The liabilities prop up the play during lazy days. The obstacle is the way. What’s wrong comes out in the night. What’s done in the dark comes out in the light. What’s strong is what fools try to fight. What you resist persists. Perspective shift to gel, turn that L into a W. Indiscrete technique geek knows how to turn a weakness into a strength, just by easing into a different sense. Essence of split-measure. Parallel slit experiment was a teller. Like Archimedes took Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and said “Hey man, here’s how you do it better.” The how is between the letters. Flowing unfettered. The Tao is unknowable, but steadier. Face what’s inside, nothing to hide. The tension becomes strength, Max’s template— next generation of Renaissance Beowulfs sent.



Said yes to a short-term contract position Friday, and then took an interview today that negates that yes. Accepting less money for more work-life-balance. I could do the original job. 6 days a week, 12 hours a day, lots of O.T. January to March, at which point the job becomes 4 10’s with a $2 raise. I could do 72 hours a week in a cold freezer, put Jiu Jitsu, massage, Hip Hop, hook up, on hold. Work, come home, sleep. Only have Sundays off. Still have my family days, but starting work at 3 a.m. would mean 8:30 p.m. bedtime. Finish Sunday dinner early, hug the fam, rush the fuck back to farmtown to sleep early, skip on the evening routine… and then sometime in March look at a pile of money and a ton of loose ends, broken obligations, closed doors, missed opportunities and a season lost. Nothing to earn but the paycheck. No skill increase. No time slot resource. That’s a hard key to factor for. Whatever anyone can pay me for blue collar work, even at time and a half, I can make twice that in an hour, doing massage. Or 4 times just for special service. Rich people in the PNW like service-on-demand though, especially for that and the on-call factor is on me to take as a burden of standard. Scrolled through the starred emails over the last year and damn, did I walk away from a ton of prospective clients who just arrived or were just leaving and wanted a session at 11:30 at night. The time will come when I reach the tipping point, whereby the side hustle yields more than the grind job and I’ll have to shift the compass. A 72 hour a week job would set the last year of building back. 40 hours a week at a less paying position, 4 10’s, home by 4 p.m., 40 hours of working in a metal shop now? Still matches the factors. Fits the plan, to go completely independent in 10 years. I can spend the next few years learning all the machines, until I can repair, maintain them, work contract. Prolly have to take classes before they let me use the laser cutter. Way safer, to work metal in a non-aeronautics field right now. Between space being privatized, trade war, and the Boeing 737 shutdown, the industry, already cyclical becomes a troubled bubble. Savvy lateral move to stay in metal, stay in machining, but away from aeronautics until the reverb settles. Curious as to what cottage industries will crop up in the niche from the whole wave of lay-offs and shutdowns. People overlook it, and it’s never discussed in the history books, but in 1933, as soon as Prohibition ended a whole wave of cottage industries had to crop up from all the displaced workers from the crime sphere rippling. A ton of entrepreneurs had to be born, from bootleggers, drivers, people dependent on the illicit economy. Bank robbing took off in the 30’s, as did short cons and personal property crime. The Depression can be blamed sure, but the wave? The spike is a matter of adaption. Real curious as to what’s next, there’s economic gaps being born.

The weak bonds with which our desires ensnare us show how glittering the temporary is. We chase what is fleeting and the moments of our desire are perpetually slipping away. What we want right now is often now what we want most.

Your narrative has many steps. Welcome the setbacks. Let them guide you to discover new strategies. Grow those tactical branches.

Focus on what you want to grow until that facet is solid enough to stand on. Enjoy the contemplation.

Is everything a power exchange because all life is matter converted into energy and back? Physics doesn’t stop.

Whatever is emotionally hardest to do. That’s usually what I’m supposed to be doing.

Planning for the future makes me feel like such a grown-up. Dreaming about the future makes me feel like such a child.

Is all pleasure avoidance of time and mortality acceptance? Imagination is pleasurable and key to introspection. But then release is necessary for self-acceptance.

If everyone turned off their cell phones for a week we would be so much closer to knowing each other and ourselves.

Parallel thought processing leads to a grass roots emergence of universal ideas, always present but not always conveniently timed. The now catches up to former now’s.

If you’re not ready to behead kings in end times then you’re still just waiting for a fucking savior. If you are ready? You’ve gone dangerous. By zealous piety or feral reversion. Real animals don’t require ideological excuses for their actions. Humans do from shame. Violation of the norm is viewed as dysfunction even when the norm is dysfunctional.

Make love to your world with more fervor and tenacity than you ever did with any woman and the world will be your mistress. Build your highest self, craft your diamond mind, master your silver tongue, manifest your greatest physical state, stack your money, get after all the factors and learn new skills. The world still needs to be built. You’re in this game still. Make love to it.

Reaching higher states / Biohack and illuminate / Spitting raps stripped of fear / Wisdom at the tip of the spear / Wit rain from the stratosphere / Matching details off the inner ear / And I don’t mean the cochlear / News Flash: Loki is too fast / So me rapping in the mirror? / Appears like 70’s Kung Fu flicks / Me arguing with a peer / And the shit won’t fit what the lips form / So my quips get shorn asunder / A quiet storm / I save the thunder / So the savage queens all wonder / But even when desire escapes / I feed that back to my higher state / Holy water to an All-Father