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The Ocean is Fair, Just and Ruthless

If I’m mad when I enter the water, she’ll let me know instantly: I’ll get hurt.

Today I was angry and knowing it, too, and as soon as I paddled out to the Ehukai sandbar, a surfer landed on my back with his surfboard. He launched up the wave, saw me there and kept going, and his board (and him?) landed on my back. I’m lucky he didn’t sever my spinal cord with the fins (just a superficial cut, but I’ll have trouble walking for next few days). And it freakin’ hurt.

About 2.5 months ago, I was super angry and jumped in the water with fins on at Rockpiles. I immediately smashed my face/nose on a rock in the shallow water. Broke it I think. That one hurt, too, and kept me dry for awhile, not to mention looking like a dumbass for weeks.

Just one more, I told myself for the 8th time in the Waimea shorebreak. It’s getting dark and my wife is waiting at home to eat dinner with the other kids, but what the hell — just one more. Over the falls and wham! — back slams down on the sand. Ouch.

Board fins slicing open a foot, lacerations across the back, a permanent Nike-looking symbol scar on my shin.

The ocean doesn’t like angry people, or at least me when I’m angry.

I respect that.

 

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What is humanity coming to?

There truly are no words to describe let alone begin to reconcile the recent unspeakable tragedy that left 20 children and six adults dead at the hands of an evil shooter.

It’s a such a disturbing event that I feel most people simply cannot articulate a rational response. No amount of intellect could scale this tower of horror. Just nothing.

War has been declared on our children, our safety, our psyche.

The scant but precious time I spend volunteering in my son’s elementary school classroom makes it really hard to imagine something like this happening.

I feel like such as an asshole, not having much to say, or it not coming out right.

Rest In Peace:
CHARLOTTE BACON, 6
DANIEL BARDEN, 7
RACHEL DAVINO, 29
OLIVIA ENGEL, 6
JOSEPHINE GAY, 7
ANA G. MARQUEZ-GREENE, 6
DYLAN HOCKLEY, 6
DAWN HOCHSPRUNG, 47
MADELEINE F. HSU, 6
CATHERINE V. HUBBARD, 6
CHASE KOWALSKI, 7
JESSE LEWIS, 6
JAMES MATTIOLI, 6
GRACE MCDONNELL, 7
ANNE MARIE MURPHY, 52
EMILIE PARKER, 6
JACK PINTO, 6
NOAH POZNER, 6
CAROLINE PREVIDI, 6
JESSICA REKOS, 6
AVIELLE RICHMAN, 6
LAUREN ROUSSEAU, 30
MARY SHERLACH, 56
VICTORIA SOTO, 27
BENJAMIN WHEELER, 6
ALLISON N. WYATT, 6

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I don’t know who I am

There I said and ouch, it hurts. If I did know who I was, then I wouldn’t be talking about myself so much.

Now that I’m done having children, I feel like I’m waking up from a long arduous slumber of the soul, that everything has been on hold for so long that I’ve forgotten meaning of individuality and the pursuit of greatness. (The theory is that since we have kinds every 4.5 years, and it’s exactly 4.5 years later and no new kids, we’re kind of freaking out).

Here’s what I do know: I’m a writer, and more recently, an editor. The paths before me are either entrepreneur or artist. It seems very hard to be both. One feels more noble, the other feels more practical. One feels super risky, the other feels attainable. Whatever it is I “am” I need to decide very quickly. Because I’m so sick of writing the expository essays like I’m back in eight grade again. It’s so childish.

Now let’s directly confront my fears:
– fear of being judged by artists
– fear of failing again and letting people down
– fear of indecision
– fear of fear!

This is why meditation much be so important. It brings clarity to things. I’m searching for clarity as to whether I’m an artist or an entrepreneur, or both(?). I wish I had a mentor from the start. This is what my children need.

I refuse to give up on this no matter how much I don’t like feeling this way.

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It’s right under our noses

The secret to happiness and success, that is.

I mean, we practically live on the beach. It’s December and I’m still sweating outside. The running alone here includes miles of wilderness trials; hill training; safe, flat roads and very long stretches of golden sand — all accessible from our front door. I won’t even start talking about the sweet magic of the ocean.

But that’s all external stuff, right? Environment. What’s affecting the internal? Why can’t we just commit and be happy?

I don’t know the immediate answer because there is none. But the slow answer is that attitude and action can go far. For example, I was running on the beach today and thinking just how much potential this particular beach offers, and how I’m only taking very small advantage of it:

  •  a 3 minute bike ride or 10 minute walk from home
  • awesome running
  • clean golden sand
  • beautiful shells and sea glass
  • world class swimming, surfing and bodysurfing
  • parking, lifeguards, showers and restrooms
  • plenty of space
  • cliff jumping
  • a rich history
  • friendly people

…and so much more. I thought about doing yoga and kettle bells on this beach in the mornings and how goddamn freakin amazing that would feel to start the day. But instead I sit indoors hunched over complaining about the mundane run I’m about to do.

Lesson learned: variation is critical to success. It stimulates life.

Another so-called complaint: no intellectual or creative opportunities here. Some of this is true. There is a major lack of intellect here because most people are attuned to the raw and never-to-be-tamed ocean, so there’s really no need to think about, well, much of anything but food, shelter and clothes. It’s a low-intellect/high-intuition place. If we want intellectual stimulation, we either have to go online, into town, travel to those place or start our own project.

Creativity on the other hand is abundant. Plenty of artists and musicians inhabit the area and gift the town with their work. For some really weird reason, I’m shedding these layers of “entrepreneur” which I don’t really care for because I like assuming the mood of an entrepreneur, but it doesn’t come naturally to me.

Writing does, however. So does this mean I’m “just” a writer? Am I going so tropical that the meaning of business is now a near-forgotten abstraction? It sure feels that way, even though I’m not entirely comfortable with it. It feels like too pure to be true.

See, I already know the answers. Just gotta stop brooding.

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The problem with me

I’m trying to be an entrepreneur when really I’m an artist.

I struggle being in an entrepreneur’s skin because it feel violating to have to hold your work up to the demands of a market.

But I know that’s flawed thinking and that it’s better to do something rather than talking about doing nothing.

I strongly dislike the idea of being a prescriptive blogger — one who doles out advice. I don’t like that because the intent always feels loaded — I’m doing this with the hope that at one point you will give me money in exchange for what I have. And that just feels dirty.

But real artists ship, and I’d rather be an artist who gives gifts of beauty and truth with the byproduct of inspiration that a businessman who makes tough decisions that end up hurting people, all for the sake of the bottom line.

The people I admire most are the ones who give a gift without expectations of anything in return. Yet the ones who are handsomely compensated are the ones I respect the most. Why is that?

My problem is that I expect something in return.

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Conscious living: then and now

When I was 18, through about 22, I was a highly conscious individual, but inoperable in every other way. A spacey recluse bound for a cabin in the woods.

The books of Carlos Castañeda, and the accompanying experimentation that went with it, swept me into an parallax of awareness. My otherwise mundane and damaged upbringing made it easy to alter my consciousness because there wasn’t much to solid ground to fall back on and I figured what the hell why not go ahead and push the boundaries what I’m capable of.

It worked wonders, I tell you. But even Steve Jobs moved on and joined the world. Why can’t I?

(Writing about these things really help me understand why I’m not some current or former hotshot because the truth is — I checked out for awhile and I’ve been coming back since then.)

Now I feel the need to return. Return to absolute truth…beauty. But not nearly in the same way as before — no, that’s brutal and terrifying — but in perhaps the way it was intended: as warrior who operates multiple bandwidths: the body, the heart, the mind; then intuition, happiness  & lovingkindness, wealth & prosperity; then the other realms I suppose.

The difference from then and now is that I’m fully accountable for myself and responsible for others. My family is a small but important group and I love them dearly. But I have more to give on a larger scale. And this is the precipice I’m at now—I can support a family working on my own but there’s not much pono between us and within us, and the ship is turbulent, and any kind of external change doesn’t do anything.

The question is — who am I?

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Becoming the writer you are

The whole idea of discovering what kind of writer you are is to shape your idea to fit the kind of person you are deep within.

You want to become like Neo in the Matrix, who cracks the code and masters the Matrix, and learns to live outside of it. You want to do that with your writing by cracking the code of words and mastering the perfection of self-expression. This way you can write virtually anything.

That’s the kind of writer I want to become, and I believe it’s possible through simplification and practice. Much like drilling two holes on opposite ends so their spaces connect in the middle.

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Writing Genres I’m Toying With

Blogging. First on my list and for good reason: it’s what I do best. It’s a pretty free and open format, and allows for lightning-fast dissemination. People know me as a blogger.

Copywriting. It’s an impure but worthy challenge. By impure I mean the intent is convince people of something they might not naturally feel. Then again, that’s what makes it a worthy challenge.

Fiction / Screenwriting. Not. At least anytime soon. When I start writing I gravitate towards creating characters in a story, but taking them through a story is tougher than I cold ever imagine.

Word Barfing. I do this a lot and I find it’s a good way to get the glut of words out of your system — the ones that have been building up like plaque because you haven’t gone in and cleaned them out. Best done in rapid succession.

Poetry. Yeah, I wish.

 

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More Word Barfing From the So-Called Writer

If I could have a perfect writing style, it would most certainly be my own. I’d take stock in soul, brevity and wit — and cadence. Let’s not ever forget cadence, because ‘dem words need dat riddum.

When a sparkling idea would come my way, I’d nab it with a tiny magic mesh net and wrestle it down until it cries out a perfect concatenation of nouns and verbs and adjectives to describe itself. Then I’d get to work and let my fingers on the keyboard to clickity-talking.

On the most remarkable days my brain will be shut off and resting during these moments.

Many ideas, of course, will escape the net, but I’d hone my skills to capture only the finest and rarest ones. I’d harvest them like they do with salmon in Alaska — for subsistence. Besides, I never was a catch and release guy — I’m a writer, dammit.

There, I said it.

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Is the North Shore Community Too Tough to Ease Into?

I know we’ve only been here for five months, but I’m getting the sense that we’re just as much outsiders as the first month we got here. The only difference is the people have had longer to judge us and make their assumptions.

It’s rather ironic, actually. You come to a place like this because you expect the upper crust of its residents to be refined in character and social receptivity, but I don’t feel it. None of us feel it.

It’s unnerving to walk by the same people practically every day and have them actually avoid contact with you, to the point of sheer awkwardness. Yeah, I know you’re a celebrity and all, and you’re from here and I’m not, and you’ve met amazing people around the globe, but what ever happened to being a genuine person, man? Isn’t that what you preach, kinda-sorta?

But it’s all good, actually. I’ve laughed about it many times already. It’s funny and somewhat refreshing, but maybe not so much for you. So maybe I’m the one with the upper hand, because I can walk away and know that it’s you and not me. But then again, what did you ever care?

Time will tell. I have a great amount of work to do — on my own self and with my family — before the ultimate truth is revealed. And when that moment comes, I’ll be ready for it. The outcome won’t really matter.

 

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