Not Another Greased-up Flex Parade

I promise

January 18, 2020

It is mid-morning. I'm chilly chillin, dancing in my chair, bumping Chaka Kahn, and checkin’ all my duties off the beeper like a pimp. I didn’t want to use this time to journal today because I've got so much horsepower rearing towards get-the-fuck-out-the-chair type action.

But writing is the vehicle for my ascent to self-actualization. So let’s get in the rocket ship and ride it to the moon.

As of yesterday, I have a consistent job writing, meaning I will be paid to do this type of shit (FUCK YES!). On top of that, I've got a social-design internship and the ol’ degree factory starts up again in two days, slamming me with six delicious classes.

I've got a lot to care about on my plate—that's for certain—but never before have I been so emotionally sober, so hungry to test the limits of my abilities, so horny for life. Today, I'm firm in my morals, comfortably curious about the contents of my mind and my emotions, equipped with a hearty box of tools for keeping it tight while keeping it loose, full of thumos, and activated as fuck.

To-day, I will speak in words as hard as cannonballs about the state of my mental and tomorrow you will find me speaking hard words again. Perhaps these cannonballs will come with the heft of shame and torpor and flaccidity, but they will be flying nonetheless.

Here, I paraphrase the man-beast-god, Ralph Waldo Emerson. The original quote was introduced to me in a journal by Peter Limberg.

To any fellow looking for a multi-perspectival, balanced, yin-yang, and utterly spectacular approach to being a total fucking bad-ass, I recommend reading up on his work. It blows my mind and continues to as his journals roll into my inbox.

In other news, Zora wanted a shout out here in my public journalings. Hello, dear. Last week she told me that she thinks my favorite part about myself is my potential.

That made me laugh. I like the sound of it. She knows me better than anyone and that comment surprised me. We talk, insights come, but most of the time lately we just have fun and play. Much of our days are spent goofing around together, joking, shooting the shit, making fun of each other and ourselves and everything.

Lately, we are back to a kind of puppy love, but one of a more matured variety than the kind we knew in our early, rose-colored days together.

For all the sky-flying chest-thumpery I started this journal off with, it is not meant to be a mere greased-up flex parade.

This is a greased-up flex parade.

Beyond a collection of achievements, what is important to me about this journal is the mental state that produced it. I well earned this balls-out, clear-minded mode of being after years of up-down dark-nights and fuck-ups, shame-sprials, hangovers, inner work, and lots of good luck. And the journey just continues.

So, this puppy-love-part-two between Zora and I is another manifestation of hard-won intimacy, lightness, and trust. With chemical and emotional sobriety has come a still space that has made all this experimentation possible. I reintegrate the unskillful masculinity of my younger days and elevate my inner feminine to its proper place, intertwined with its twin.

I'm glad to be here. Shout out complete.

Love,

Crambie