Here, look at her. Look at how amazing she is. This is definitely a brag. I’m bragging about my wife right now.

She’s everything I need, all the time. She’s my support when I need a solid rock in a shifting day. She lets me be her provider when she’s tired and frustrated and sad. She cares more about me than I do, and tries to keep me alive longer than she should. She’s patient, soft-spoken, humble, caring, and gorgeous. All the time. And what’s constantly amazing to me is how much she loves me. And I know she does, because she shows it. I can’t say the same thing for how I treat her all the time, but she is better to me than I deserve.

You can’t have her. She’s mine. But you CAN be her friend, and she’ll be yours. It’s a solid arrangement.

The post My Wife appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

It’s a basic requirement of adulthood. This terrible twenty-four hours appears at dawn like a damned fly, buzzing about and haunting your tired steps, and then, with a thankfully short-lived lifespan, dies out as you crash upon the sheets at night with a disgusted sigh. Tell me you haven’t had one of these days, and I’ll advise you to live just a little longer.

There is only one hope for you, should this day visit you– that it may come later in the week, and before the weekend.

Today was my bad day, and not only can I look forward to a quieter and pizza-filled Friday, but my weekend, cloaked in expansive mystery, is upon me, and it will be amazing.

The post Fruit Fly appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

It’s strange that I’d be satisfied sitting around anywhere, doing nothing, yet here we are. It’s comfort and control, peace and power. We are together to be whole, and now we find ourselves whole. Can I complain?

This is a good life. I’m excited to see what happens next.

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The fragile existence of any calm moment is liable to be instantly destroyed by a succession of minute annoyances, which means my wife is affected most negatively and most severely. Now that I’ve officially declared war on my anger, it seems to rear up increasingly and with malice at the tiniest details crossing my wrathful way. I must shame myself into being a better person. Don’t let me get away with anger. If my wife sees this, she should know that she has full permission to throw heavy things at my head if I ever get angry at or around her.

Don’t forget it.

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Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel, and every Dr. Seuss book ever written. I grew up with these stories ringing in my head, guiding me through life. Some were weird, and they taught me how to laugh. Others were more serious, and they helped shape the basis for right and wrong.

I’ve always wondered if I could write a children’s book, one that could someday make a child happy, or thoughtful, or sleepy. Maybe one day I will. For now, I’ll stick with stories about dying pets, injured birds of prey, and grieving spouses. I’m good at writing those.

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Before my phone dramatically passes away, let me offer a conundrum: If artists everywhere proclaim that love is the answer, why are so many artists alone and unhappy?

One suggestion could be that the only way that artist can find such inspiration is to be subjected to such heartache that they are at once in despair for such an event and overcome with inspiration to continue their art.

I used to think it romantic to hold another as my inspiration. Now, I wouldn’t wish such a thing on my enemies.

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Have I peaked? Have I reached a milestone of dad-ity, where everything I say is vague, and my non-existent kids automatically tune me out? “Oh, it’s dad droning on again about existentialism and his personal political misgivings. He’ll stop talking when his life-giving farts run out.”

Look, okay, fine. The more specific I get, the harder it is to maintain a public blog that anyone can read. I could discuss people I know and how I may or may not feel about them, but when did gossip ever help anyone? I could catalog my unique foody experiences around L.A.’s most secret alleys and culverts, but none of that has or will ever happen(ed). And no, I refuse to sit down and curate a self-help manual. A daily blog where I don’t try to work out my most personal struggles and mental acrobatics in a public arena is hardly worth the effort, no?

Sit down and shut up. Apparently I have things to say.

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Your eyes tell me all is fine
Instinct tells me otherwise
I leap and cling and tumble
Fall, pretending I can fly.

I reached, but never far enough
I see what vanity has done
And you can hold me all you want
I’m falling down, I’m falling down
I am what you have made me
And this parachute can’t save me
I’m telling you now
It won’t be pretty when I hit the ground.

Falling quick in helpless spin
Razored air is choking me
Caught between the endless rock
And uncertain blue infinity.

Cord is trapped just out of hand
Frantic movements strangle peace
Close my eyes to breathe again
And I know what these moments mean.

I reached, but never far enough
I see what vanity has done
And you can hold me all you want
I’m falling down, I’m falling down
I am what you have made me
And this parachute can’t save me
I’m telling you now
It won’t be pretty when I hit the ground.

The post Never Far Enough appeared first on Of Psychology and Psychosomatics.

Here are the facts: Humans, and all other living creatures, have a limited lifespan. Trees can live for thousands of years, growing and maturing and bringing life to the space they inhabit. Some species of tortoise survive for hundreds of years. Dogs grow up with us as children and usually leave us before adulthood. Gerbils have fewer years, and insects even less. We happen to exist somewhere in the middle of it all, at about 110 years maximum, depending on where on earth we live.

The short of it is this: We all die in the end. It might come sooner, or at the very latest possible. It could be natural or unnatural. It could be at the hand of another human being, or our own. So why are we so afraid of it?

Because it’s the end of our lives as we know them? Because we don’t have proof of anything afterwards? Worst case scenario, there’s nothing, and our conscience is snuffed out forever. Depending on your belief, there is promise of an afterlife, a heaven or hell, a rebirth as another being, a chance to try again, reward and punishment. But this doesn’t matter in this life.

We spend too much time fretting over life after death, and too little time living this one. We are afraid to do something dangerous, afraid to try something new, afraid to take chances on people or beliefs or dreams. We blame people for accidents, make them out to be preventable, and try to take money from them. We expect safety at all times, and are willing to give up important human rights to guarantee it.

Please

Let me tell you what life is: Yesterday, a man was killed as he went to work. He was an important man, and left behind many grieving friends and family. When everyone was gathered together to remember him and pray over him, a suicide bomber killed them. Over 70 human beings died, and a hundred more injured. This was done in the name of meaningless, faceless, religious terror, to people who try to make their lives and their world a better place. And do you know what happened after? More people came to the same place and picked up the bodies and treated the wounded. They gathered AGAIN, risking more life, to save life.

In America, a man died when his self-driving car had an accident. So to prevent this from happening again, there are people calling for bans on self-driving vehicles. This is our idea of safety. This is our activism. We stand and block the future for our mindless fear of death.

Should I ever pass away trying something new, do not rally against that thing. If others leave this life early, do not let grief cloud your judgement of humanity. The good of the many outweigh the needs of the few. My life must show this at all times. I hope yours does as well.

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Just to make it a little easier to swallow, I’ll include a poem for anyone reading.

Greenpeace is street-cleaned
Feet steamed for green beans
Never leave your teeth, please
You can’t skeet, can’t bleat, can’t redeem, can’t delete.

Give me your steel cleat
Dream me your keeled fleet
Zeal won’t believe peace
Peel, wheel, steal, repeat.

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