DREAMS

I have been having very vivid dreams lately. A few nights my dreams have caused me to sit up in sheer panic. Not b/c I was having nightmares, but b/c I was confused as to what reality was, as if I was on the border line of becoming completely lost inside my own mind. Your mind can travel to interesting places and convince itself of interesting realities at 3am in a dark room. In at least one of my dreams I have been completely aware that I was dreaming. In this instance, I was not only aware that I was dreaming but also that the content of my current dream was from others dreams; dream combining if you will. In another I was capable of levitating (flying) and trying to teach others how to levitate as well. Gripping stuff.

While I am certainly not an educated scholar of the mind, I do believe in the power of dreams, be it while I am awake or while I am sleep. I do prescribe to the idea that "thoughts become things". 

"I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?"
~John Lennon

Dream - Verb. /drem/

contemplate the possibility of doing something; something might be the case 

Last night, I dreamed I was in Lagos

Free, living inside the city dump

Living inside a shack with scrap metal and wood walls, a tarp and rusted Yugo hood ceiling

A floor made of Earth

A bed made of Earth

Had swapped out my 1000ct thread sheets for mosquito netting

Traded my ergonomic pillow for arms crossed behind head

Exchanged my CD of sleepy time sound-scapes for... sound-scapes. 

I was one of 16million souls with a collective purpose. 

I awoke this morning wanting to live... 

Live in a village not in a neighborhood

Wanting to live with people who stomp their feet and clap their hands simply b/c it is Thursday

Celebrate daily b/c it the only logical thing to do with the limitless energy that vibrates through our flesh

Inhabit a space where card board and copper are the only currency needed

where the exchange of goods and services trump a complicated and selfish financial system that leaves everyone wanting more and appreciating less

A place where the phrase "your moneys no good here" really means your money is no good here

Live In a place where time doesn't stand still but doesn't dictate the pace

I awoke this morning ready to start living and stop dying.

SCARS

I recently read an interview where the Minnesota Vikings running back, Adrian Peterson, discussed his healing process post ACL surgery. A potentially career ending injury that occurred during a football game last Christmas Eve (2011). In that interview "AP" made an interesting comment. The interviewer asked Adrian when he knew he was back to his old self, which obviously he is based off his league leading stats, and "AP" responded with a story about how he made an instinctive cut and plant at full speed. He went on to say that during this cat like action he felt the area around his ACL "tear" or "release". Initially this sounds gruesome. Maybe even like it would be the last thing you would want to feel, but he said his physical therapist told him this would happen when he "broke through the scar tissue". In that moment, at full speed, AP heard his P.T.'s words... and he knew he was healed. This must of been an empowering revelation.

I find this bit of information amazing. Yesterday, while I did my eight mile run, it was all I could think about. I have scars, we all have scars. Scars aren't an issue. While I propelled myself along the coast one foot at a time, I asked myself, "Do I do enough to break through them? Do I put myself back onto the field of play at full speed? Or do I allow my scars to hold me back, only go as far as they allow me to go, allow them to control my range of motion?" The real issue isn't the scar, but rather the effect I allow my scars to have over me.  

Trauma happens. It is just a part of life. Scars form. I (we) can allow these scars, either physical or mental, to hold me (us) back or I (we) can tear through them, choose to release myself (ourselves). 

Release. It is really my only option. 

Abuse – Noun. /a-byus/

: A corrupt practice or custom

I always felt my mother’s biggest flaw was that she lacked a method to her madness. She relied heavily on her emotions when making decisions. She never adhered to any sort of code. Her philosophy was more of a non philosophy, “feel it, do it”.  It was this irrational mind set that landed her in Greenville. After her and my step-dad divorced she decided to leave Charlotte and go home to Atlanta. Two hours into her four hour drive it occurred to her that black sheep can’t go home. So she exited the freeway half way between home and Hell.

Marie and I arrived in Greenville by plane. We had spent that summer in Indiana with our father, Lee. When Marie and I walked off the plane Mama was there waiting for us. She hugged Marie first and then grabbed me up into her arms. Her tight caress was too much. She realized it and released me.

“Are you Ok?” She asked me.

I just nodded yes: an obvious lie. 

“Come with me to the bathroom” she insisted as she reached out her hand. She lead Marie and me into the ladies room.

I was embarrassed. I didn't want to go into the bathroom. I was sure there were women in there. I knew what Mama wanted and didn't want others to see.

“Take your pants off”, Mama ordered.

I stood there staring at her. There were no women in sight but I could hear a woman who was using one of the stalls.

“Ray, honey, now. Show Mama” she pleaded with me.

I slowly unbuttoned and unzipped my blue jeans. My hands were shaking. I was unsure what my mother’s reaction would be. I was afraid the lady might leave the stall just I bared myself. As I slowly took my pants down Mama asked me to turn around.

As I did Marie spoke up, “it’s bad, huh Mama?”

I stood there, pants down around my knees, my ass exposed to my family. I tried to lose myself in the yellow wall tile in front of me. I thought about floating in the bowl of banana pudding on the Nilla wafers box. My visualization couldn't take me away from this moment. Mama slowly came towards me and lifted up my shirt. As she rolled up my pin striped tank, goose bumps ran up my  spine. She used her free hand to pull the band of my underwear away from my body. As she did I cringed. The release of the tight elastic band from my bruised and swollen flesh sent pain up my back.

“I’m sorry baby. Mama didn't mean to hurt you.” she assured me.

The woman in the stall flushed the toilet. Mama gently released the elastic band of my underwear and let my tank top fall freely. “You can take your pants up now Ray” said Mama. 

The stall door clicked as the lady inside unlocked it. I quickly reached down and pulled my blue jeans up and fastened them around my waist. As I worked the zipper up, Mama asked the lady what the fuck she was looking at. The lady didn't speak. She just turned the water on and proceeded to wash her hands.I don't blame her for not speaking. I was embarrassed. There was no reason for Mama to curse at her. 

The three of us exited the restroom and headed for baggage claim. We walked in silence. I wanted my mother to say something. She didn't  We arrived at the baggage claim and stood along the other passengers and watched the bags go around. Mama sent me up close to the conveyor belt so I could grab the bags when they came out. I stood there waiting. I was confused as to why Mama hadn't said anything. Was she upset at me? I felt like I let her down. I wanted to tell her I fought back. I was overwhelmed with the urge to apologize. Did she think I was an ungrateful little asshole, too? 

“Ray, my bag!” Marie yelled as she pointed. 

Marie's bag lined itself up with me, I reached down for it. It was heavier than I expected. As I grabbed the shoulder strap the weight pulled me forward and caused her bag to fall off the conveyor belt. I lost my balance and fell forward, my shirt came up. My lower back was exposed. I quickly jumped up. I was certain another passenger saw my bruises. A flush of embarrassment came over me. I looked around. No one seemed to notice me. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I could feel my heart pulse through my wounds. I set Marie’s bag on the ground next to my feet. I was relieved to see my bag when I looked down the line of bags moving towards me. I braced myself and removed it from the conveyor belt.

With both bags in hand I awkwardly walked back to my family. Mama grabbed Marie’s bag out of my hand. Our trio exited baggage claim and headed toward the parking lot.

Marie and I were surprised to discover Mama had replaced our station wagon with a new car. I didn't like it. Our new family vehicle only had two doors and no rear facing seat. The sun reflected off of it and made it difficult for me to tell if it was gold or some sort of rusty orange color. Either way it was ugly to me. Mama popped open the trunk. I lifted my bag and placed it inside next to Marie’s. Mama closed the trunk and walked around to the passenger’s door and unlocked it.

“Shotgun” yelled Marie. 

Self worth has been an idea that has been rolling around my brain for the last few weeks. Defining how much I am "worth" seems to be quite challenging for me. Worth is an idea that has been beaten so-far-past being cliche by 'self help specialists' that it continues to lose its value among the pop culture morals it is up against. In my experience, understanding my worth has been a roller coaster ride of self realization and self sabotage. A fast paced ride full of bright flashes of enlightenment followed by lulls of near suicidal downturns. As the train of carts races around the rails I am both the elated wide-eyed kid who takes the down hills with my hands up and the rational motion sick adult who understands every up is followed by a nightmarish downward plunge.
My mania goes professionally undiagnosed, but my search for self worth, self actualization, continues.

Junk – Noun. /jonke/

: Something of little meaning, worth, or significance.  

Some treasures are not bright and shiny. They are not majestic wooden chest full of rare jewels at the bottom of salty seas or over sized black pots of gold located at the end of rainbows.  Some treasures are nothing more than a surprise find at a shitty neighbor's garage sale or at one of those ginormous parking lot sales. A wonderful thing with no price tag lost among a pile of junk. A find you didn't know you needed until you saw it. Until you picked it up and felt it in your hands. 

"So how much for this?" you might ask the junk’s owner.

"What's it worth to you? A couple bucks?" he'd reply back.

"Sure" you would confirm while trying to hide the excitement of knowing you just ripped this dude off. 

You'd walk back to your car and with precision and caution you’d set it in the passenger seat.  Ecstatically you’d drive home. Occasionally gazing over at it feeling satisfied. Then all at once it hits you. How did it end up there among the junk? Who over looked its amazement and allowed it to slip away? 

You'd pull of the road, maybe into an empty store parking lot, and turn the car off. Silence would fill the car. Sadness would overtake your mind. As the tears breach your eye lids it occurs to you that maybe all your new precious has ever known was junk. You'd do the simple math, junk attracts junk. Even non junk that has always been surrounded by junk attracts junk. Your precious thinks it’s junk. Your tears would fall. 

You'd pick it up. "You're not junk. You do know that don't you?" 

Blank stares, it doesn't know.

Cha-me-leon – Noun. /ka-mel-yen/

Often attributive

: A person given to often expedient change or facile change in ideas or character.

"What type of animal do you see yourself as?" asks the interviewer. 

Like all questions there are two basic ways to answer: A. tell the truth or B. give the response you assume the enquirer wants to hear. I chose B. 

"A Panther." A large predatory animal is always the best answer, most choose the stereotypical Lion, Tiger, or Great White. I choose Panther because as it rolls off the tongue it supplies the correct answer and resonates nicely to the listener as it strikes their auditory nerve. 

I like Panther's a lot. They are stealthy, deceivingly powerful, and travel alone. Those characteristics suite me. As much as feel like I could easily fall into this genre of feline, I know I am more reptilian. I am a Chameleon. Chameleon's are survivors. Four legged fighters who have overcome fifty-eight million years of change. 

They are nature's original liars. Their lies are not of the complicated multipurpose variety. No, they do not use their deception for evil. They use it to survive, to last another day in a cruel world. The jungle is full of predators. Exposing one's true self, especially weakness, results in only negative outcomes. The sides are clearly divided inside the triple canopy of chaos; Predator or Prey, Carnivore or Herbivore, Nocturnal or Diurnal. Yet, the Chameleon chooses only to blend; claiming  no side, citing no loyalties, placing only survival on a pedestal. 

Even when answering questions the Chameleon replies with the answer that allows him to most fit in. A master of not only disguise but also reflection. A prefect trait for a survivor who inhabits a narcissistic world.  

The United States Marine Corps is 237 yrs old today. 

Today's confession, I miss "The Corps". I miss it dearly. I miss the simplicity. I miss the rawness. I miss the brutal honesty. I miss the sense of belonging to something greater than myself. Belonging to a community where the members actually care about each other. I miss the loyalty. 

I miss my Brother in Arms. Happy Birthday, Brothers. 

Semper Fi 

Today's confession; I hate being told what to do. This is one of the main reasons I got rid of my T.V. My disdain for orderly commands probably also explains why I refuse to prescribe to any organized religion as well. We are suppose to be a free people. Free to feel, think, and express our natural selves, but we chose not to. We instead allow others, our families, friends, and co-workers to help us decide what is best for us. Hell, we have gone so far as to allow marketers to tell us what is right for us and how it will make us feel. Said marketers have even crossed the line from telling us how a product will make us feel to convincing us this is how we are SUPPOSED to feel. Pure insanity. Yet, we play along. At least in the instance of marketing I can understand the monetary driving force behind their unwillingness to allow us to simply live our own lives. I can not say I share same empathy for family members and friends who choose to use the same devilish tactics as marketers when asserting their belief systems and ideas upon us.

Rationally, it only makes sense that those closest to us have the largest effect, positive/negative, on us. I think it is important that we understand the power we have to effect others. I grew up under roofs where this power was not understood.Therefore it was grossly misused. I grew up believing that the simple order you chose to do something dictated how the world would perceive you. 

Fag-got – Noun. /fa-get/

Usually disparaging

: a male homosexual

Left sock. Right sock. Underwear. Pants. Getting dressed had a specific order. I never really thought about it. I just did it. The order felt right, correct to me. 

“Only faggots put their socks on before their pants” Johnny reminded me from the top bunk. “Did you hear me, faggot?”

I heard him.

I heard him every time he suggested my preferred dressing method made me a faggot. I understood a challenging retort would end in my physical dismantling. SO I just finished getting dressed and hurried out of the room. I wasn't even sure what a 'faggot' was. I just knew it wasn't a good thing and I never wanted to be one. 

Due to one ridiculous insult, I spent the majority of my life believing that being a 'faggot' was a bad thing, wrong. I allowed a comment, an evil suggestion, to dissuade me from getting dressed in a particular manner because it might prevent me from being something I didn't even understand. At such an early age I had my mind made up that 'faggots' were wrong, which meant 'non-faggots' must be right. Even a 7yr old brain can piece that puzzle together without too much thought or explanation. 

Who knows, maybe had there never been a negative reinforcement associated with this word 'faggot', maybe I would have grown up to be a 'faggot'. The point is, I was robbed of that freedom. My freedom to choose if I wanted to be a 'faggot' or not was taken from me (I will discuss this idea more in future blogs, the blame in this instance does not solely lie on my older brothers shoulders. He was not the lone freedom thief of my youth). No one would ever rationally chose to be something that they believed to be wrong. Humans are not wired that way. We long for acceptance. 

The reality is you can substitute just about any word in the place of 'faggot' and the same would hold true. This was just my experience. My older brother probably could of used any word and I would have clung to as truth because he was my hero. Like it or not, we are all heroes and heroines to someone. For the most part I don't think we really associate heroes/heroines as people who tell us what to do or how to live. I'd argue that the opposite is true. That our role models are walking talking beacons of correctness. 

My older brother never told me what to do, just what not to do based off his understandings of right and wrong. He obviously can not be credited with creating the term 'faggot', so it becomes obvious that he too was misguided on how to feel about 'faggots'. This onion obviously has generations and generations of layers to peel if I am to get to the root cause, but I'd much rather chop this onion up and move on. 

I make it a point to remind myself daily that I am someone's hero.We all are. There is someone out there who is waiting for me to provide them with guidance; help them understand what to do, how to think, and how to feel about the world around them. Assist them as they attempt to decipher what is 'cool' and what is not, what is 'right' and what is 'wrong'. I always do my best to choose my words wisely. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I succeed. Conveying to another my understanding of how I believe one should choose to live their life may only take you a few seconds, but the reality is my words may last a lifetime.

In case you are wondering, yes, I still put my socks on first. 

Wrong - adj. Unfair or Unjust

I am weary about sharing my writings on an open forum. I recently discovered that a spoken word piece I wrote a few years ago was plagiarized, poorly might I add, and then copyrighted. The author is "anonymous" and I am not even sure how to confront them or if I even should. I have had material items stolen from in the past. Those petty thefts made me feel extremely outraged and angry, but they do not compare to the feelings of distrust and disgust I felt when I read this bad interpretation of my personal thoughts. Poetry (spoken word), I believe, is nothing more than the rawest form of our personal emotions put down on paper. If you have never stood in a room full of total strangers and shared your writings (thoughts & emotions) then this may sound dramatic to you. If that is the case, I would challenge to give it a try. Write a poem. Make it raw, personal and then go down to your local open mic and share it. I promise it will change the way you view poets, writers, and hopefully all artists who dare to share their themselves with you.

So my fear of plagiarizers is going to, at least for now, stop me from sharing excerpts from my book with you on here. Instead I have decided to make my first post about the event that lead me to delete my Facebook account and start blogging. I kind of have this love/hate hate/love relationship with Facebook. I am assuming, at some point all of us who take frequent trips to this cyber social circle all share this stressful love/hate relationship. Our walls are filled with equal amounts of meaningful and meaningless junk and we are left to decide for ourselves which is which. During my decision making process yesterday, I kind of went haywire. My passion over the defeat of CA Proposition 37 sent me on a "friend" deleting frenzy. I "defriended" folks just because they disagreed with me. Shame on me. The most UN-Americana thing I could of done was disregard another's freedom to choose. To quote Dr. Jake Houseman, "When I'm wrong, I say I am wrong." (Yes, I did just quote 'Baby's' dad.) 

Below I have posted an email I sent out this morning to one of the victims of my post election Facebook massacre. Hopefully, this will provide more clarity as to why I bailed on Facebook and more insight into who I am. Besides, I couldn't in good conscious title my blog "Confessions of a Chameleon" and then not confess anything. 

Dear Sir,

I am sorry for being a psycho. Sometimes, I think I allow my passion and emotions to get the best of me. I felt so defeated yesterday when I saw Prop 37 lost. Honestly, I almost cried. I felt like it was loss for humanity. I just don't understand how anything can be more important to us than what we put in our bodies. Eating should be our most important priority as a species. It saddens me to think we now take eating for granted. I sometimes wish for a catastrophic event, something to"unspoil" us a bit. Although, we have shown we posses resilient short term memories. In the book "In Defense of Food", Michael Pollan says, "We are the first generation of humans to be overfed and under nourished". So true. I was raised on fast food and junk. Looking back I now believe it was child abuse (maybe sounds bit dramatic considering all the other forms of abuse I endured). It really has only been these last 3 yrs or less that I have begun to educate myself about food. I now am all in. I feel like it is a situation or circumstance where one can not walk the fence. I guess you are right, you have to let people make their own decisions, but there is a lot of deception out there blocking people from making solid decisions. 

Being an IT guru you probably understand the power of misinformation, being over/under informed, more than I do. We are bombarded with information and then are told to decide for ourselves what is real. Which to me is equal parts beautiful and cruel. 

I've been writing a lot. Eventually, I hope to piece it together into an actual novel. While writing is freeing to my soul and allows me to digest and understand my life, it also brings up a lot of shit. The subconscious is an amazing built in feature; we suppress things for a reason. Ha. A large part of my writing revolves around my family, dysfunction of my family, or lack of family. You and (your wife and child) have always felt like family to me. (I have never really bought into the "blood is thicker than water" idea.) I have always thought of you as being "Fatherly" to me more so than being my friend. So yesterdays knee-jerk response was more about the personal feelings I felt than it was towards your right and freedom to choose. I took it personal. I felt like you challenged me. I felt like the family turned it's back on me, so I 'ran away from home'. I should of respected your  (and the others I "defriended") right to choose, your right to have an opinion separate and different than me. I didn't do that. I feel regretful about that. IF anything I should of opened the door to an intelligent conversation. Shame on me. 

These last few months I have being feeling really overwhelmed or frustrated inside. I am the happiest I have ever been. Marrying Julie was the best decision I have ever made (joining the USMC was a close number #2). Being married has instilled in me a since of pride I thought I could never feel, I am a proud husband. For years I doubted my ability to love, to be faithful, to be a good man but all those fears have been stripped away from me. These feelings of integrity have poured over into every other area of my life - my work, my friendships, my training, my beliefs. This transformation is awesome, yet I feel like this new, free me is one people are not ready to accept or don't want to accept. Like it doesn't fit peoples' previous agendas for me. I feel like this positive change in me has lead everyone away, like I no longer reflect that which they want to see. It's weird. Maybe you are reading this and think I am losing my marbles. Maybe I am. It really does feel like the happier I feel inside, the more friends, clients, etc I am losing. Maybe it's not them, maybe it's me. Maybe subconsciously, I don't want to surround myself with those people, maybe I out grew them. Maybe I was using them to fill some void inside of me that no longer exist... I don't know. I think some of this frustration boiled out of me yesterday when I went on "Fakebook" and saw some of the comments/post people were making and I just decided I can't be around people who aren't like me. So I guess I turned into some cyber William Wallace and said 'you are either with me or you're against me'. Again, an irrational reaction. Life isn't that black and white. I don't even think of myself as being black or white, but rather the large box of Crayolas with the built in sharpener on the side. So why would I put that expectation on someone else? Silly. My emotions both drive me to be successful and isolate me into making terrible decisions. I felt to prideful to back down yesterday. 

This last year of my life has been such a pivotal one for me. I feel like I am on the verge of something, a new adventure, a career change, a life alternating change of some sorts. I can't put my finger on it. I am constantly bombarded with feelings of total connection to everything around me and moments of being totally disconnected at the same time. Maybe Jules and I should pack our back packs and hit the road, "Kerouac it", if you will. 

After I finish copying everyone's personal contact info down this morning, I am going to delete my FB account. I was shocked at the number of personal messages I received with people asking me to not delete my account. People who have never even commented on a single post or "liked" anything I have shared had really nice and encouraging things to say. It made me sad to feel like I was walking away from them. Such a weird cyber world we partake in. Saying good-bye has always been an Achilles heel for me. I just don't do it. I feel the same way about death, but these are entirely different topics though. 

SO, I hope somewhere in these words I was able to explain myself. I am also hopeful you realize you are and always will be more than a Facebook friend to me. I love you. I really do. I love your family. I even love that fat dog of yours. Now that I think about it, I really care about almost everyone I have ever met. I am kind of a sucker for people. I think humans are amazing, even the ones who disagree with me (this does not include the upper echelon employees of Monsanto though - if their is a devil, he/she runs Monsanto). Everyone who knows me, knows I am an emotional guy. There is really no apologizing for that. Learning to corral those emotions is something I do need to work on. 

Thank you for reaching out to me. I was happy to wake up and find your email in my inbox. I still want to punch you in the gut for voting No on Prop 37, but I also want to hug you and tell you I am sorry being an asshole. That's one of the things I miss most about our beloved Marine Corps, our ability to duke it out over some bullshit and then go share exaggerated stories over a beer all in a time span of about thirty minutes. You just don't see that any where else. 

Semper Fi