Modern Domestication, Death of the Go-Getter

People don’t typically take stock of the year on the 4th of July do they?

Well, I am.

I would like to know what the fuck I’m up to this year. What the next project is.

If I can afford a decent digital camera, I’d like to try my hand at amateur photography and blog friendly photojournalism. 

Otherwise, I don’t really know what to do with myself. Literally.

I feel like I’m getting paid to do nothing at a rate higher than if I were doing something part time. But the drawback is I’ll have to continue doing nothing if I want the money. Money which is only available for the next 2 months in my state. 

Other states have stopped the benefits early so people get back to work.

I see their logic. If no one is serving them at the restaurant, or food comes out late cause there ain’t enough chefs. Maybe the floor hasn’t been mopped, no one to do it… You can see the logic.

Everyone can eat out. But no one is poor enough to take the job that makes the meal.

It’s an economic dilemma. A breakdown of the society we’ve built and invested in. Or learned about in school then invested in once we were of working age.

Who wants to see all that hard work put in just to enjoy a pseudo-retirement because of a virus that shut us in our homes for about a year unless we were essential enough to keep going to work with masks on our faces…

Those who kept their jobs through the pandemic do not feel like the elite because they were essential.

They feel like they were dragged through shit, mud, and in some cases, blood all because they were needed. Vital. Essential.

Please. They’re still at work.

This isn’t my first pseudo-retirement. My first lasted 3 years. It was a quaint, 1 bdr bachelor pad by a lake with tons of cockroaches running through it. I’ll never forget the great times I had there. Or how it all got cut short and I was forced back to a different reality. One where I had to fight for my life, my shelter, my food, and my relationships.

Oh, please. That fight is ongoing.

The threat is just further away.

Unless you count how little of a community I have here in the god forsaken Colorado suburbs. 

I had a taste of the streets the other day when I left my home in full intention of not returning ever. But once I found my first pit stop, with my brother still texting me to come back home and talk it out, my sister expressing maybe I just take a night in a room, and my therapist on the phone giving me an energy check as we talked about how to keep me from relapsing.

I call that a safety net.

I came right back home the same day.

But when I left I tried to cut ties with domesticated life. Part of me was trying to become the animal I was before. Maybe not completely rabid but I was looking for the thrill I used to know.

The thrill of killing Bambi’s mother but having nowhere to go to prepare, cook, and eat it. The defense of the space you do find. The friends you share the remnants with. The types of trading you do when you don’t have money or have something better – a desired, nay, a coveted, enviable product.

Do you know the kind of treasure hunt it is to be on the lookout for items of value in order to trade them amongst the friends, road dogs, comrades, even acquaintances you may be lucky enough to find?

Nowadays, the domesticated way is to wait for the treasure to be affordable, then have someone deliver it to you, which makes you fat. Then not only do they get your order wrong, they take more money than the item is worth. Something about a fee.

What the fuck?

The last time I heard of fees like this, I was buying drugs, and the guy who showed me who to buy from – THAT GUY wanted a fee paid. Just for showing me to the dealer. Bitch I didn’t get a ride from you to the dealer, what is this, for the gas in your left leg?

Let me take care of your right leg too, mutherfucker.

The point is, if life is a big treasure hunt, which it is, I should be getting it myself. Domesticated life is so full of middle men and setbacks and obligations that at some point, if my shit DOESN’T get stolen then I’m never going to value anything ever again.

There are a couple of games I used to play when I was little. One was a football game called “Fumble Rumble”. Another was called
“Capture the Flag”. In both games, the object is to keep an item lest it be stolen. One is a football, the other is a flag. 

But if no one is after the football, if no one is after the flag, the game cannot be played. It is forfeited, or worse, neglected. But if played, then exercise is up, heart rate is up longer, calories are burned, scars are earned, and eventually somebody fucking wins. 

Is there a trophy in all this game play? 


Haven’t I told you?

… its treasure.

And the only rule in treasure is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

But more on that some other time.

Be well.

You Can’t Celebrate Everything… You Alcoholic

Celebration has its place. 

So does alcohol. So do invitations. And so, as we all know, does the misery.

But to put these things in there place is simple- to some of us.

Well, celebration comes post-achievement. Once you have done something worthwhile for yourself or another, by way of progressing the life in question, you owe a psychological debt to celebrate the moment.

6 months Sober? Celebrate.

She said yes? Celebrate.

Promoted at work? Celebrate. More if your idea led to more business.

Alcohol. It’s flammable. So save it for occasions of proven strength.

You win a fight? Have a drink.

Stood up to your boss? Have a drink.

Tough day at work but you stuck it out? Have a drink.

If you didn’t, don’t go crying to the gasoline. 

Please, hit the gym. Make sure you punch something or throw someone, but don’t hit the bottle.

If you hit the bottle when you fail, you’re only celebrating failure.


One can drink themselves into the abyss. 

Be sure to let me know what you find there.

Then there are those who invite others to “commiserate” with them.

This is foolish.

Only lovers have success in such situations. And both must be careful in how their cards are played lest they scare a potential lover, already down with the sulks, far far away with their desperation, stories of loneliness, and jests at despair.

What is absurd is buying a girl a drink and then depressing her. What is absurd is drinking too much to yourself and buying no one else one. What is absurd is achieving something and not proposing a toast.

There is a hill.

It is made of all you have done.

At the top of it you stand.

Is there nothing in your hand?

If the bad people get their comeuppance,

Shouldn’t the good get a glass,

To finally take the edge off,

To finally settle in,

To at last,


And rest,

Well lived?

Be well.

The World is So Gay

    You may have grown up like me. With your family going to church on sundays. Whether it’s because your mother sings in the choir or because she thinks the Almighty will help her with all her bad little children, her addictions, and her marriage, job, and self esteem too. You may have. Maybe not.

    You may have grown up playing ball games with your brothers and stopping the fights between your sisters about who’s wearing whose clothes. You may have grown up loving to play and watch sports professionally played and keep a Vogue magazine next to your Atlantic magazine. 

    You may have grown up watching movies made for children, and later movies made for adults, and in the meantime found the ones made for the bedroom. You may have found the audacity to subscribe to Playboy magazine when you arrived in your very own first apartment.

    I assure you, you may have grown up.

    Now, I left out a few possibilities that may have been part of your life. I didn’t include the legal blindness you may have been born with. Left out the abuse you suffered at the hands of your parents. The violent and often taboo trauma you and your siblings put each other through in childhood. What your Uncle “Teddy” would do to you, or how he did it to someone else and you didn’t tell mom and dad…

    I also left out stuff that might lead to confusion in today’s heightened homosexual atmosphere. Like the man who lived to put the trauma of being abused as a boy by the men in his “poor little life” in the past and decided that being “straight” was worth the investment of his pride.

    Well, that little boy’s trauma is my own. It’s very confusing to have put the past behind you, and then have everyone pretend that the whole lifestyle is about rainbows. 


    I know gay men and women. Hardly are their lives skies full of goddamn rainbows. 

    I imagine the concept of the rainbow is to accept every color. I don’t know for sure.

    But when support for a cause comes so easily to businesses, television shows, commercials, movies, ads in the newspaper, in magazines, on billboards, then public opinion actually shifts to make room for the new idea.

    Children don’t have the same glasses on as adults do. But when the world is full of rainbows and children are walking out of the proverbial “closet” on television, with the amount of exposure they get on streaming services like YouTube, your son may wear dresses and heels before you or your “partner” have even figured out what his orientation was before the latest costume switch. 

The world is so gay. If you want to become a girl and you feel like a girl but you’re a boy, now the public will support your transition. Want to be a boy, young lady? Be one and be proud.

    Look, it’s ok to be gay. It’s ok to be anyone or anything you want to be.

    But once you become what you want to be, don’t tell me to change who I am so you feel more comfortable. Not when it means I have to wrestle once again with the traumatic events of my poor little life. 

    We all emerge from trauma with different scars from the myriad range of events that exist to endanger our lives and our resolve to keep growing as individuals who own their choices.

With my past, I could have been gay too. I could solve the puzzle of what you call me by using pronouns and other LGBTQ+ terminology. I’d be bisexual(He, Him, His), But I don’t want to get fucked by phalluses, it’s been tried and I don’t open to anal. The list goes on; I hate the taste of dick, and I know some of you never knew this but I’m not coming out of the aforementioned closet here, you just didn’t know. Most of my male to male relationships have been either forced (I do mean rape here), unsuccessful, or too visually and physically disgusting.

    If I ever became emotionally invested in a man, I’d still be bisexual. I refuse to commit to a man romantically, I’d get nothing done.

    Women have been too good to me. And they’re so easy to fall in love with. I enjoy that. Their beauty still evokes poetry for her that I keep to myself- unless I know the b* well enough!

    On another note, I don’t know how American football is going to handle their new openly gay player for the Raiders. That’s a tough sell. I wouldn’t say football is ruined yet. Give it some time and maybe the crowd will calm down about it. If they don’t cheer without knowing when to stop when the dude takes the field!

    Conclusively, all my memories are bisexual. I’m not proud of it. But everything is not fucking rainbows, people. It’s been said that “pride comes before the fall”- but that’s the Bible, and just like LGBTQ+ support commercials, you don’t have to listen to it.

Be well.

How Not To Bleed

My family should be able to rely on me.

The evidence was there just the other day. Someone was in trouble, I wasn’t called for, but I came to the rescue.

After I couldn’t solve the problem, I called the police.

And they are NOT letting me forget it.

Why did I say I was unreliable?

All the trauma I went through in my second apartment.

It isn’t the blood I shed. It was the blood others shed, and how important it was that I protect myself instead of help them.

I could have been killed. But I sacrificed my courage for my life back there.

It kills me everyday.

A movie somewhere says “there are worse things than death.”

This crow is eating at my heart. Through my brain. The memories and the emotion that comes with them. 

How it feels to stand by while your date gets robbed.

How it feels to open your home to a prostitute you don’t want to touch but you know how cold it is out there. Then to see her thrown into your only closet’s doors while she physically fights her husband. 

How you give them space.

All of the people you gave space to.

From the girl you want things from, to the guy you want nothing to do with. To the guys he came with. And the women they know that you thought you were friends with. 

Countless others.

I read a book once. It was Mother Teresa’s. “A Simple Path” is it’s title.

It stuck with me. 

But if I am trying to have her compassion, I must find it within to handle the pain that comes when they throw stones at the nun, the brother, the friar, the church, and even the priest. 

Never missing their target.

When they cut at your hands and lay siege to the small room you rent, when they hold out their hands to shake with you and you find drugs when you look at your palm.

When you break up with the crippled girl with a drinking problem who stabbed you in the back with a screwdriver, and they try to keep the two of you together.

When your broken door is held closed with a closet rod against the opposite wall and you sleep with mice and you cannot get out of the place because in all your psychosis and addiction, with your door wide open and your heart shattered by what you’ve witnessed…

Another night hits you in the face when other prostitutes hear of your den of thieves and want to turn your bathroom into a brothel.

The “brothel” matron wants to play with you. She smokes what you smoke. She needs hours of solitude in your bathroom. She needs this, she needs that.

You let a few ‘customers’ in. 

Then she meets the guy you don’t want to introduce to anyone important to you. Because he sells drugs, and will rob you, him, her, anyone. He has customers too.

They clash. He hits her. Beats her with a wooden chair. 

She survives.

The sex you have with her a week later feels empty. You don’t return to her body ever.

There’s a reason I feel weak.

A reason I have been weathered. Jaded even.

It is because my heart is open. And it has begun… to bleed.

Playing the Right Game

I have been trying since my first official girlfriend to have a family. Though there was something wrong with the way she self lubricated so I had to wear condoms with her. 

No children there.

When I did have a child, it was not certain that it was mine. 

It still isn’t.

If the boy is my son, then it should be proven by a paternity test. I should get to be in his life. If that is my son, his mother shouldn’t have run off with him and left me to find out in a facebook message that, after two years, he’s mine. 

It’s not like I didn’t find her when she was in my hometown and at least ask how the boy was doing. But as I couldn’t see him anywhere, I assumed he was where I was told he would be. With his grandmothers, a lesbian couple with a stuck up butch partner from hell.

I hope the boy is safe. All my attempts to reach him and that side of his family have been thwarted time and time again.

I should have given up then.

But I tried again with a woman that seemed to not want to let me go. When she said she was pregnant, she also said it was mine. She drove me to the nearest WalMart and performed the pregnancy test in their bathroom and brought the results out to the car. She also said she was keeping it.

“Ok,” I said.

When she had the baby, I was in county jail. I don’t remember the charge. I got the opportunity to call her from within and she had had the baby 4 days earlier.

When I first saw him, he looked like gold. Because I rarely flirt with girls if they aren’t (I guess) of a White, Spanish, Irish, or Black heritage (can’t work up the courage on Asian girls), my son Johnny is a mix of Black and Indigenous skin from me and whatever White mix she told me (or anyone) she was. For simplicity’s sake, he’s Black and White. Mixed, as they say.

But then, I got locked out of heaven when Johnny’s mom yelled into the ethos at a recreation center near the mountains and when the police came to eventually arrest her, they took my boy and started a process I’ll never forget. 

The one where they wouldn’t give me time to get off of drugs, where they wouldn’t let his mother take care of him, or my sister in Boston… 

The process took a few months and I couldn’t piss clean for a month straight.

I lost my son that way.

Between his mother and I, the plan was that she would take care of him, but I was so far out of it that there was no telling when I could actually join my family as the father.

The twist in this story is that I had proposed that she and I get hitched a year or so before the pregnancy.

She and I were both waiting for me to set the date.

So here we are. At this crucial moment where I am about to declare something awfully sad, but so cliche it hurts that I’m going to do it anyway.

What I’m going to do is forget about family and marriage. I’m going to figure out what my deal is. 

Of course, I’m sticking with women based on beauty, sexual attraction, and chemistry. But how far it goes with them is up for debate.

I can’t just chase tail and bring her home and see if she stays. That was my whole motive at my second apartment (the dangerous studio apartment I blogged about earlier). 

The lease I signed says a guest cannot stay longer than two weeks out of a month. 

(So unfair.)

So it looks like I’m available for… One Night Stands?

That’s it?

I guess I deserve that. I couldn’t cut it as a stand up guy. Couldn’t pull the trigger on an engagement. And my landlord/little sister is shaping up to be quite a handful. So perhaps it’s better this way.

We’re going to have to do something about condoms, though. Because if I have to strap up to get it on, I need to experiment with some ‘real feel’ type deals. Otherwise I’m ripping off the band-aid and playing like usual, which is making sure my partner and I are tested for STDs before we hook up.

Seeing as they’ll be one night stands it will be so difficult to tell that I might as well keep a few gold wrappers near the loveseat. 

…because I’m so poor I haven’t replaced the bed I set on a pair of couches that… wait a second!

This could be really fun.

Do you know how fun sex is on CHAIRS???

There are quite a few options here lol. I’m so serious- from the gaming chair at the desk to the armless chair in the corner to the table chairs in the off to the side of the desk, the loveseat, and if we must, the twin bed on a wood base without a frame (so the floor – plenty of room there!). 

All jokes aside, I think marriage and children will at least have to wait until women who have loyalty and motherhood built in already come along. With the prerequisite that they are not lunatics or under the thumb of sadists. 

Unless that sadist is me.

Be well.

“I said BE WELL. Now LIKE it! (Yeah, who’s your…)”

Work. Spin. Dance. Blog. Pray.

In combination with upping the dosage of my mood stabilizing medication, burning sage and blessing myself every Sunday has had a very positive influence on my behavior.

Three weeks ago I started to “smudge” with sage and now I’ve stopped wasting time on projects that weren’t serving anyone or myself and have begun to focus more on things that serve me as well as others.

My new job will take care of serving others, provided I am successful in all pre-employment screenings.

I have jumped back onto my stationary bike and thank heavens it isn’t painful to my groin as I feared it would be formerly.

I think I may have the desire to dance in the privacy of my home. You know, just to work out the kinks and maintain a rhythmic balance in my physicality.

My blogging rate has risen, and I’d like to keep it that way. There’s bound to me something or another to keep the inner poetry flowing and the mental health in check with displays of organized thought.

And I have begun to pray again. To pray the rosary. I know I may never worship the lord again, but one does need to chant every now and then. Especially when one still craves spiritual practice in their lives.

If you’re heard of (of course I’ve read it)…




I have a different set of priorities:






Be well.

A Toast for Fathers

So what does a father do on Father’s Day… 

If he has never spoken to his 9 year old, OR held his 2 year old in a year?

Even if it is their mother’s fault?

Then you congratulate other dad’s even though you don’t have your own.

So I raise my glass to the guys who have their children…

To the guys busting their ass to get to soccer practice when they wish she was playing softball or tennis.

To the guy who’s picking up the laundry from the laundromat because living in a motel is all they can do right now.

To the guy whose tie isn’t just right for the ceremony of seeing his son claim his wife.

To the guy who is weeping uncontrollably at his son’s graduation event.

To the father who never misses a remote chat with his daughter who is chasing law in the city of her dreams.

To the guy who never thought he’d make it to the birth of his child and finally did. 

To “making it count”, because there are guys who know how to make it count, and still aren’t getting the chance to.

To Father’s Day, and all the father’s we’ve lost or never known.

And to you, the ones who still love your father, no matter what your mother or legal guardian, or brother, sister, cousins or friends say about him.

To the guy who wants to take the next step and finally give his girl her first.

To the guy saving his swimmers for the right girl. Or the right time.

To the father protecting his pregnant daughter after her idiot boyfriend left her to do it on her own.

To the father paying for college.

To the father hustling to pay for everything.

To the father just now stepping up because the test said it was his.

To the father who decided to stay.

To the good father within all of us.

A Toast to us. 

Be Well.

(ps. I used Jack Daniel’s in this toast.)

A Killer’s Respect

(This is a story from memory.)

Day One

I just effortlessly convinced this girl to have sex with me. 

Of course, I acted as if we knew each other. Made sure she got a good deal on her crack as we sat in my studio apartment with one couch, no knives, but nevertheless a huge problem in the sink. 

A problem I tried to solve by offering a homeless girl a place to stay if she tidied up for me. We ended up having more sex than any work getting done. The sink had been full of water, plates and food since she left. 

But there I was, slapping a big black ass back and forth on the carpet when a different dealer walks in through the door he unlocked with what else but the key he had coerced me to give to him. It was the only one. One time the police knocked my door down, it was just so I could get in my own door… safely.

You can only guess my cowardice when he asked me, who by this time held the title of “the house” who got dealt whatever was passed through the place – unless it was money – so I was high on crack alot. But when he asked me if my friend had any money, I was speechless.

We hadn’t (or I hadn’t) finished.

Caught with my pants down, he robbed her in front of my face. Brutally. To this day I am nothing but pure cowardice in her eyes.

I had space to breathe when they were both gone. The dealer left to conduct more “business” (he was ‘trapping’ in my stairwell, I was first door), and the girl finally stopped crying and left my balls the bluest they’d ever been.

It wasn’t long before someone was at my door. It was the man who sold and was addicted to my true drug, meth. He shot it, I smoked it. It was a happy deal. But it started with this occasion, on this day, and with a fight over access to my apartment.

I found out he brought a knife, that he was looking for the first person I had ever let into that address, a prostitute who I thought could benefit from a warm place to rest out of the cold winter snow. She and I never slept together, she was always more trouble or in trouble than pleasure.

Thing is, the lady was married. All the prostitutes on that road were married. 

But the knife guy, who all call Spiderman, wouldn’t take no for an answer. I let him in when he came back and asked nicely, but that was after I suffered hemorrhaging from the knife wound in – guess…- my right middle finger. 

I had fought well. But I laid there passing out in the aftermath from the blood loss. And I would be remiss if I didn’t note that I wrote a song title on a paper towel in all my suffering that remains the most beautiful song of all time, made even more beautiful by my agony. It was “Agnus Dei” by Rufus Wainwright. I had written Agnus Dei so large that I had no room for anything else but a glyph I had picked up from high school I had always obsessed about.

When I awoke, I walked half a mile to the nearest clinic and got fixed up. A few stitches later I was walking back home from the hospital.

I don’t remember sleeping, I could have, it matters little.

Day Two

Late in the day, I got a knock on the door from a girl I had somehow convinced to lay with me a week or two before. She showed up with three young children. She looked at me expectantly and I misread every second of it.

I immediately expressed that it was unsafe to have children in my apartment. The one I don’t have the key to. The one where dealers are bound to enter at any time with any amount of shady, shaking customers and there’s no telling what their attitude towards children were.

I decided they all had to leave. If she expected sex in my bathroom while her children played in the main room, she was mistaken. I had no intention of children overhearing me plow their mother. Find someone else to traumatize them if the throb within you cannot be satisfied in healthier ways.

That’s how unsafe my apartment was. 

“No children allowed.”

The sink alone would make them sick if they stayed too long.

But it was dangerous. And I didn’t know it was about to ratchet up a level that evening. Until the staircase dealer’s competition in the neighborhood (and along the road) who actually drove a car came over with some friends.

He pulled me aside once people were drinking, and unveiled a gun from a motel towel. And stared at me. His arms started to move as if a communion plate full of small cups of grape juice was in his hands, they were all for me, and he was trying not to spill any. 

A loaded gun.

I hesitated. Because I knew who I’d have to use this on if I accepted it. But murder is a heavy charge to go to prison for, if you ever get out. Murder weighs heavy on your conscience. Murder is what splits your soul in pieces right? Murder don’t make a friend out of this cowboy. Not this time around.

I told myself long ago that the only reason I would kill would be for my homeland. For America. Not to become apart of a crew, gang, or whatever I was being offered by this competitor and his friends.

And I refused the pistol.

And later, when the two men had fought each other in hand to hand combat. A fight I would have got off my ass to see if someone had bought the news. Instead I found out when the staircase dealer crawled back to my place with blood covering his body, his lips destroyed, hardly able to speak and hemorrhaging from his face, obviously weak, do you know what I did?

I let him find his way to the seldom used mattress on the floor. And a few days later he recovered.

While he bled, wept, and regained his strength, he had at least 3 tears already on his face. Put there by tattoo artists who found the same respect I had for him when I met him.

A killer’s respect.


Breathe and Focus

I must confess; I’m in a pretty negative headspace.

As I struggle with what job to choose after letting myself go during the year of mask mandates.

With the COVID Delta strain now ravaging the world, I wonder if the unvaccinated will force businesses to shut down to protect them.

In that case shutting down wouldn’t be the solution, the vaccinated will be the only ones working.

Such circumstances are hypothetical.

What has me so blue is how truly weak I feel.

How strength training seems difficult to come by for me.

How if I use my stationary bike to burn fat I may just burst a fucking testicle with my thunder thighs.

And how- hang on…

I still have brisk walking. And seeing as I live on a hill in Colorado, taking a few (5+) laps around my block every day should burn a few calories!

I’m not completely poor (and my living expenses aren’t out the wazoo) so I can buy some free weights, dammit.

And I can amend my diet to less processed foods.

It’s not Lance Armstrong style fitness, but sometimes when you’re playing billiards you may not have a good shot to take, but you may have possible options to increase your chances next shot. You may even have just a really difficult shot. 

The point is: take the shot you got.

I may not have fucking bowflex (the 8 ball corner pocket of my dreams) but I do have coffee and joggers.

That’s all my fat ass really needs.

I’ll give it a week. If I don’t feel stronger by next Saturday, then it’s time to add on exercises.

Take the shot. Pace yourself. Breathe & Focus.

You got this.

Be well.

A Snake Problem

A Snake Problem

In a dream, I healed my sister, who walked away fine. Then I was bitten by a snake, and trapped by a second snake to ensure my suffering.

It is not the first dream of being bitten. 

The first dreaming encounter took place in a modified local park refit for a Traceur (freerunner). The stones were square, the amphitheater was similar to real life, and once I had completed my parkour run, which was elating to say the least, I was bitten by a snake. I fell from it’s venom, and during the spread of the paralysis, I awoke.

Both dreams took place in a park, the dream in which I healed my sister was a park in the night, the other dream took place in the day time.

A deeper look into lore, myth, and symbol, reveal that, thankfully neither snake is a phallic symbol. The dream of daylight held the longer snake, but it’s chest, if you will, was wide. The two snakes from the night were as small as leeches, curved, slimy, and black like the “Alien” films.

Nevertheless, the lore held no wisdom about being bitten, only tricked by snakes. Psychological history also was useless, plenty of unreliable web addresses. In which I had no trust as one should always be wary of unsecure websites.

The myths led me first to the Greek figure Hermes (Roman: Mercury), the guardian of merchants, god of magic, diplomacy, rhetoric, and… “escort of newly deceased souls to the afterlife”. 

Well that cannot be. I wasn’t on my deathbed (nor am I now), I mean, I have a history of theft, but those days are behind me. Furthermore I did not steal in these dreams.

Though had I not awoken, I would have feared for my life longer, each snake bit was venomous. That much is certain.

Worthy of note: I considered Medusa very early in my research, but seeing as she was not present, and my sister is no queen of stone, and as I was alone in the first dream, I ruled her out. Though I do own a sterling silver ring of medusa that I could not get rid of after purchasing for over $100. It’s from New York (and hopefully not cursed…).

Then, though I had dismissed it at first, I read the details about the second Greek figure associated with snakes – Asclepius. 

You know Asclepius if you heal (or manage to treat) ailments. If you are a patient, you probably know of his symbol, that of two snakes entwined around a staff.

One snake is bad news.

Two snakes could be good.

My interpretation is this: I am bitten by the healer’s curse.

I may have only taken a deeply Professional Massage Therapy course at a trade school. But having been a successful graduate, I have the skill of therapeutic touch, the knowledge of ailments (pathologies), assessments, treatments, and remedies. 
That makes me equipped with healing knowledge. I have taken no oath and do not practice. My punishment could be dreams like these, that awaken my investigative nature and spit me out at the healer’s curse – which I understand to be the guilt of not healing enough.

Those who do not heal, do not weep. All who weep may not heal. And those who can heal should not weep. 

Physician, heal thyself.

Which is what I believe happened in the first dream. I was in heaven practicing enviable dream parkour. Then a snake bites me? A possible sign of the healing gods.

So how did I heal my sister in my dream? I saw human anatomy in my mind (third eye), verbally asked her to fix her posture to support her shoulders. She did it. That was that.

She walked away.

And before I could get up, the first leech-sized alien snake bites my left ankle (in the first dream, right ankle), I fall immediately. I must have tried to crawl, because the second snake blocked my forward momentum.

If the bite on the leg is meant to be a dog’s nip and ‘playful’ affection by the gods, then it’s getting a bit close to unwelcome attention.

I’m 33, I’d be like Nathan Fillion in his role as “The Rookie” in med school. That’s if I could afford it.

What am I to do? Open an apothecary? Trim cannabis leaves? Open a small business of healers, writers, and podcasters, and f* Millennials?

Even if “Manny’s Millennial Minefield” has a certain ring to it, it’s just a dream.

…the thing is; I take my dreams seriously. If it were a dream wherein I was enjoying a bacon cheeseburger, and I had all the ingredients, I’d hop right out of bed upon waking and make that burger.

Should I do the same here?

This wasn’t so obvious as a cheeseburger craving. It took forever (and ever) to find a valuable opinion on its meaning.

For now, I’ll search my soul about it. But I should at least use my ‘powers’ for good. 

Manny’s Magical Methodery…
Manny’s Medical…
Manny’s McChicken… (what?)

Manny’s Maniacal Maladies…
Manny’s Merry Melodies… (oops!)
Manny’s Magnificent Musks


Be well.