6 Powerful Ways To Do Something Else

#1 — Do nothing.

Do a lot of it. All the time. Why hit the brakes when you can simply let your hands fall to your lap and prepare to receive the wall you cannot avoid, not anymore, not at this speed and course. Don’t inhale or exhale, but don’t hold your breath either. Now what? Whatever it is, it’s key.

#2 — Do something.

Something is better than nothing. More than something, because more is better, sometimes. This might be one of those times. One is the fewest things you can do to qualify for completing this task. It starts with one, Chester.

#3 — Do everything.

More is better, and since everything is the most more there is, it’s the most better you can get. Even the betterest aren’t the best because everything has problems. Hey, stick around for the good news! With new problems coming in every day, there’s no time to be bothered by the old problems. Feel pathetic, unhealthy and weak? That one pushup wreck you bruh? Try going to the gym with someone way fitter than you which would be a cinch, then take a hot yoga, run a couple ultra marathons, become SuperBowl MVP and heavyweight champion in every martial art; start now and never finish.

#4 — Do one thing.

Done with all your might and passion, all your courage and conviction, every word and gesture, every moment and material component will embody one purpose. Making music turns you on? No matter what you do, if you’re never not making music, you’re really only doing one thing all the time.

Perhaps your purpose is to keep life going. Not just for you, since that’s not how this all works. If your purpose is life then you’ll drive not to a destination but to preserve life. With a single criterion, results will be singular. Babe Ruth batted for home runs, not average, not technique or tactic. Aiming is correlated to achievement. Enough advice?

#5 — Ignore all advice.

Go rogue. You’re a maverick. The first of a kind. Nobody has ever played the role of you before. This is all new, so their maps might be to entirely different territory, or they might knowingly give you false directions. So, whether you take a sock of quarters to the face, the wealth of nations through the stock market, or a mere penny for your thoughts, experience is cash you can spend again and again, donate and still keep the change.

#6 — Question yourself.

It’s a meditative exercise to think about where your thoughts, your principles, your preferences all come from. Do you like spicy food? Is that really your idea? Did you decide to like it or are you merely reporting an internal state of consciousness; pleasure when you consume ghost peppers? Do you have the idea or does the idea have you? Track down who you heard it from, find out what podcast, and then the source material, and discover where it was collected from, research the author’s life, and before long you’ll realize that you can’t ignore anything. Everything you think and do is built upon not only the shoulders of giants but the structural remains—reverberations of consciousness—in the artifacts of one peculiar species of primate on this planet, underpinned by the great unknown, where there is a universe, a sort of background which creates stars like our sun, that create the planet which creates the plants which create the primates which create the ideas which create experience which feeds back into the loop as what we perceive as actions, our creations are as echoes, not a new voice responding to the original.

9 Ways Not Being Not Together is Not Not Better

  1. Ambiguity

    The cave we fear to enter holds the treasure we seek. Also a dragon. What does it all mean? Something! Maybe.

  2. Negativity

    With all the red flags, you’re basically skiing a downhill slalom through hell, and the breakup is a gold medal. The ability to avoid predators before you become prey is a proven winner, so bend your knees and mind the trees, because a cougar’s been stalking you. Like, even though she hasn’t done anything to you. Can’t a leopard take a walk by herself without being accused of hunting? Not really, no. 

  3. Time

    What you used to spend with them you spend some other way. Hiding in your bed from the world or lunging for a hasty replacement. Those are options. You could also be meditating, reading, learning about why you make such idiotic choices and how to not; literally every other option is still available.

  4. Anxiety

    Why didn’t you return my text(s)? Honestly who does that? Not a person I want to be with. I want someone who respects me no matter how much I disrespect them. But wait, maybe I was too hasty, I’ll give you a call. I’m sorry I said that. What I meant was no thank you, please, you’re blocking my peace.

  5. Energy

    The drain on your adrenals, your emotional resources, the frustration is finally gone, and with it the refuelling station for sugary feels, the familiar and cloying security, the cuddling and intimacy you came to depend upon. But as coffee is not a substitute for sleep, your flat confidence can’t be replaced with spare attention. Which brings us to:

  6. Addiction

    Being in love is literally having a chemical dependency. It’s also a high the rest of life can’t really compare to; no mountain summitted or snorted, no gold medal or investment, no corporate merger brokered, nothing compares to the lovers whose love is a stable, sizzling circuit. If you’ve had it, you’ve lived long enough, if you’ve still got it, you won’t live long enough to have had enough.

  7. Privacy

    You can brush your teeth alone, stretch out in the bed alone, shower alone, ask yourself insightful questions to consider the unexplored depths of your character alone, and post to Facebook about how #blessed #grateful you are for your awesome job and great friends and #lifegoals without anyone giving a shit or calling you on it. #airhugstomyself

  8. Communication

    Especially if it was rough at the end, if you were like two babies banging pans at one another or starting snowball fights in a nuclear winter, remember all the times you totally understood what they were saying and agreed or were fascinated by their stories, because these were invaluable training hours you logged towards your human pilot license. So this one crashed, okay, fine. Playback the black box and trace back where you lost connection with the control tower.

  9. Growth

    You feel stagnant and want to mix things up a bit, so you’ll go vamping in the forest and learn you’re the source of it. A cicada shedding its skeleton, a flower blooming, a frog freezing and thawing. Death is the beginning of something unimaginable to come. This is like that but you’re still alive. More.

This Is The Trip

The safe trip you wished. Where all the voices of all the times you heard the truth—the words that resonate with you—and you didn’t get up to get a fucking pen to write down what inspired you, well sometimes it’s just trash and no one would miss it, except, they would. We miss the bad along with the good.

And on your holidays, not because it’s right or because you say so, but when you think of me, I write. Faces everywhere, paperclips and sidewalk and potato chips stare day and night there. They’re the ancients, vestal daughters of gods and does it sicken you to see an old man laid bare, or do you laugh and swear he had it coming, the saw on his legs, the bath filled with lye? Or does it somehow satisfy an itch, stroke an urge of your revenge porn of squirming sneers that slide upon the greasy vinyl sea. They’re not so bad once you get to know them, see, you play their game and they act all friendly.

A morality is personality and individuals are copies, drones of no identity, functional necessities in a species divvied up into discrete competing colonies. Some ants even practice slavery, tending to the many queens all fighting and flaunting for the right to feed, her brooding warriors, construction workers, foragers, commuting thousands of scale miles across the jagged hellscape of earth. A safe return is not a given, scores will meet their doom by shoes or neighbors out looking for food. Accidents of terrain claim multitudes in the struggle to continue struggling to continue the struggle.

We’ve seen the movies, the cartoons, the novels which messianic bullshit runs through, but the truth is in there too. The chocolate in peanut butter, order in chaos, truth lies in every lie and the joke’s on all of us when we do—and we’re all going to—die. But the machines we design to outlive our species, when we eventually go extinct like the vast majority of all the species that have ever been.

The next generation of this, the transhumanists, shaped by the environment as sea glass smooths under the patient waves, each one of us makes as we trace our ways. No more of this long distance running, big brained premature birthing cousin of the apes. I’m sorry but that’s what it takes to stretch through the crapmosphere, the fault that may cost us the stars, the specially relative bend of spacetime that comes when you combine 5-MeO-Dimethyltryptamine with a monoamine oxidase inhibitor, you might notice that when you are born, you die to death, points adjacent in the nascent cardioid of life.

Is that alone not worth a try? Is nothing you’ve tried more compelling than pride? Will there to be a beyond to the string you pull on, deforming the tapestry of this plane, this membrane of reality bending for everyone? If you don’t love your kids or your spouse or your friends or the trees or the stardust we breathe enough, you just sit right down, take one more puff, and again until you wake the fuck up.

Scale Independence

I’ve spent so long looking for someone to love me. To really love me, not in common terms or the sparkler of affection, commuter flights of fancy or infatuation turned attrition. A love to light the way home. Not where from, but where to.

I’ve started on so many promising paths, wading through dusky pollen plumes and it’s only when the blooms close up shop for the last time and it’s just hard jaws and sideways glances and hammer toes in fuzzy robes, do I find myself lost. And what am I supposed to do now, you say? Just run away. Dive into the underbrush, choke on thorns, bumbling through brambles and snag your ankle, tumbling downtown in Dirt City.

If you’re familiar with scout groups and wilderness troops, you were taught when you’re lost to stay put, that way someone can find you. But no one is coming to find you. You must find yourself, in the thick of all this mess and bloody tears and bricks in your throat that somehow you made, though you can’t remember when. You breathe again, wipe your eyes. You soak your open sores in oak, and stand up on your shaky knees.

In the quiet terror of this momentous endeavor you want like hell to see something familiar in the blotchy blackness, some splotch of color or obscure letter, some flash out on the periphery of never. But it’s all throbbing darkness full of nothing, and you stare so hard your head bulges and your teeth squeal and in the apogee of an erratic orbit the thousandth time: a pixel out of place catches your microwave array. With pupils wide as coffee mugs, pouring over the readouts again but there’s no sign of love. And you’re lost as before, a wounded deer stotting over your fears towards the hope of something you can’t quite say what, just not here.

You run anyway, thrashing in the moss pit, a no-look barrage of wild kicks at the tangling vines and rocks and twisted roots until somehow at a loss for breath or worry you trip over nothing, floundering on even ground, a salmon in a grizzly mouth, moonlit teeth are all around, little pearls that welcome you with a wool blanket and a stump to sit on. They coo over your torn pants and toast your arrival with mulled wine and it’s not a home but you’ve been gone so long, not more than a fawn when this all started, what do you know about home? So you sit and you drink and wrap your eyes tight until sleep, the thief, comes for your worried mind.

Then everyone, the pearls, the warm, the blanket, even your pants are gone. It’s colder than it’s ever been, a new ice age settles in but nothing looks familiar in the cannonball haze of the blue and the grey. So you’re lost, a-fucking-gain. Somehow it’s worse today, the way everything just seemed alright, the height of your joy become the depth of your decline, the path to your doom, circling the drain of what remains of your sanity, chasing a filmy dream faded in the dawn. And you walk on. Out of the cat’s cradle of fabled rhymes and downed power lines and into the long day alone. And now that you see, you don’t need to believe, the syncopated palpitations cease as the tree grows into each one of its leaves.

Intestinal Flora

Oh love deep inside
My Flora, my better half
My touch, my kiss, your terrain
The map says the treasure is here
but matter appears and argues a spell,
Dust settles on the mind like a mirror.

My father said,
Son, only you can do it
Get out of it what you put in
Get to it. Listen to your gut
sometimes it’s accurate
sometimes it’s just full of shit.

My mother said,
Baby, all women are cagey
Don’t get lost in Pandora’s box.
Men are useful but mostly invalid
A cucumber is better company
And after you still have a salad.

Belief is a thing with folded wings
The truth is wide open sky
Tyranny born of good intention
Revolution makes evil
an honourable mention
And the blind watch
the all-seeing eye

Oh you can try and try
till the day that you die
You can’t change the tale from the head
The story is told before it’s read
So baby don’t cry at the end.