On Metaphorical Ramparts

“Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.” These are the brilliant and truth drenched words advocated by the lovely Brené Brown. What of vulnerability? Haven’t we been conditioned to construct indestructible ramparts for emotional defense? We continue to exist only because of our barricades in place to prevent pain and failure from befalling us.

            As a young man, especially a man that valued stoicism for the majority of my life, you may find it odd that I’d be an advocate for the overwhelming benefits of showing vulnerability. You may find it queer that anyone would want to be vulnerable in the first place. Why show your faults and flaws? It’s much easier to put up walls and protect yourself from the world that seemingly wants to swallow you whole.

            
     Vulnerability is being susceptible to physical or emotional injury. Being vulnerable is being susceptible to attack, or open to criticism. With the idea of survival in mind, it’s readily apparent the being susceptible to any kind of attack or injury is probably contradictive to the end goal. I argue that you aren’t truly living unless you show the world all of you, beautiful you. This includes the nasty bits and pieces of you that don’t inherently want to be cast bare under the tireless scrutiny of fellow man.

            
     This is nonsense, obviously. A castle that has visible flaws such as cracks in the outer wall or an unstable foundation is more likely to be sacked by the enemy, is it not? This is true, but man is not a fortress to be protected. Man is not designed to house impenetrable gates and vaults to safeguard his inner emotions and passions. The enemy may more easily access these treasures, but perhaps after allowing the “enemy” passage within your haven they will turn out to be allies. Perchance this apparent enemy is, in reality, a group of merchants bringing fine silks and linens to your keep.

            
      We speak of this nonsense again. The hordes of people outside the castle, your castle, are only out to rob you blind. They’re only out to take what you have by force. Enemies that want nothing more than watch your world burn. We ought to just barricade the gates and allow none passage to our realm. Then how do we grow? I speak not just in fictional kingdom metaphors, but in truthful individual realities. Only by allowing the rest of the world in, in both our made-up castle and our hearts, do we truly live. It is easy to survive; easy to exist, but to truly live is a different beast entirely.

           
     Without being exposed, without the willingness to be defenseless we cannot be authentic. An American poet May Sarton put it rather eloquently, “We have to dare to be ourselves, however freighting or strange that self may prove to be.” It is impossible to know who we truly are in life without being authentic. It is impossible to be truly authentic without the presence of vulnerability, without the lack of emotional safeguards and other preventions.

           
     Fallacy! Blasphemy! Heresy! If you allow every person to see your flaws you will most likely be labeled as a pariah. People will take advantage of you, use you up and spit you out. You will undoubtedly be taken for granted. You freely allow yourself to be used and abused. You open yourself to feel otherwise preventable pain and hardship. This is an unnecessary allowance that isn’t warranted to lead a full and long life.

          
     Rejection is an innate and always present fear for many of our species. The idea of rejection is forever persistent in our dealings with other people, as well as blaringly prevalent when we take personal inventory of ourselves. Our hopes and dreams, thoughts and actions, even gestures and God given genetics are vulnerable to rejection. Nothing is safe from rejection, nothing. However, rejection is not a bullet, not an unbeatable monster, not an unstoppable force. Overcoming rejection is absolutely the key to making the practice of vulnerability work.

            
     Facing and overcoming these demons is at the very core of what I’m alluding to. Without hardship, without challenge, we do not improve. Sitting alone inside our throne room, closed off to the rest of the hurtful world, we do not flourish. We do not develop ourselves or the world around us; we do not live. Without interaction, true meaningful interaction, we do not begin to fathom what it means to be alive. Without rejection we cannot grasp what it means to be one of the many vulnerable, brilliant, and beautiful souls thriving amongst the throng of life.

            
     Allowing other’s into your so-called “throne room” opens you up to assassination attempts. You are allowing spies to steel their place within your court; the chance of sabotage rises drastically. Would-be dissenters and mutineers can study your weaknesses and plan their attack. You are giving fuel to the enemy and hamstringing yourself for the inevitable battle ahead.

            
     “If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles,” wrote Sun Tzu, the philosopher and Chinese general. Yes, life can be viewed as a battle; it certainly isn’t always easy. You would be hard pressed to find a philosopher or deep thinking individual, let alone average person persuade you otherwise. This being said, without battles there are no victories. Without victories there exists no defeat. Defeat may indeed be inevitable, but only if your perception allows it.

           
     In opening yourself to possible enemies, in allowing yourself to be vulnerable, you also open yourself to unquantifiable depths of love and friendship. I can personally testify that I had not truly lived until I shed my stone-cold stoic demeanor and allowed people to see who I really am. No, you will not be able to cast yourself bare just by waking up one morning and deciding to do so, but that is the first step to take. 

You will be rejected. 
You will be outcast. 
You will be hurt and disgraced.

You will be loved, cherished, admired. 
You will show courage, leading the way for others to be vulnerable. 
You will test your mettle and find it superior. 
Most importantly, you will have lived life.

Blue? Writing About Nothing.

What does it mean to stand on the sideline? I do not know.

 Is it a noble pursuit to allow another player on this blue spinny sphere to take a glory in your stead?

I believe it is.

...but then what is glory anyway? Is it even worth working towards?

Glory, and the pursuit thereof, is for the shallow. Accolades, trophies, achievements, laurels, these don't matter. Then what does matter? What dictates and defines one man's idea of achievement over another? One soul's pursuit is another's pain.

I ramble.

This hypocritical writing and "deep" thinking is growing more pointless and tiresome it seems. Always asking questions, never providing any answers. It's nothing but some wanton mind spinning out of control in the late hours of the eventide.

This is only a practice in preoccupying my mind for just a moment. Staring at the ceiling with blank expression and only accompanied by the unrelenting barrage of thoughts, malicious and otherwise. Is this all just a practice in morbidly hilarious futility? Again, an answer I can not provide.

I focus on the blue LEDs of my keyboard. They're an easy and simple distraction of thought. An exercise in stretching my lexicon of color.

Azure, Navy, Sky, Indigo, Lapis Lazuli, Ultramarine, Neon, Cobalt, Cyan, Teal, Egyptian, Prussian, Cerulean, Something borrowed...

This color is sharply contrasted by the faint red hue of my alarm clock. It reads 12:38. I could list colors of red, but I'm bored of this exercise.

This is nothing but an effort in free writing. An attempt to empty the gray matter in my cranium. No point made, no wisdom gleamed. You've wasted your time here and for that I apologize.

However, you should try it sometime. Ink to page, so to speak.

Does it prevent the feeling of bleak isolation that comes from occupying a space alone? No. It's more akin to warming yourself with a flask of whiskey. It doesn't effect the cold in anyway, but it knows how it pretend like the best of thespians.

Thoughts on Confidence, 11/23/2013

I'm trying to wrap my brain around something that I can't really come to terms with. How is it that, in the span of a few days, I can be told from strangers that I should work in radio, asked out randomly by members of the fairer sex, and even be teased about for an amateur model photo shoot... but still can't cling to one iota self worth?

Long-winded questions aside, I just don't understand. Sure sure, we've certainly been through this familiar song and dance a few times before, but it just doesn't seem to resolve and go away.

Thinking through the various steps of why I think this and feel this way, still brings no edible knowledge fruit. Usually when one rationalized his/her fears, those fears vanish or subdue themselves in the face of plain and simple logic. I know the answer to 2 + 2 is indeed 4, but the math still doesn't add up. Does this make any sense?

There is no reason I should be this way. There is no reason I should be plagued by this constant wheezing wind of emotional turmoil and the distilled fear of dying with lack of an interesting story to pass on, let alone anyone that wants to hear it.

Upon reading these poorly crafted strings of words back, all I can seem to tell myself...

Suck it up you chump.

What is self-esteem anyway? Do the charismatic individuals you see walking in the world amongst you really even have charisma? I'm told constantly that I'm a very outgoing and charismatic person; that I have the means to be a politician or motivational speaker, but I can't for the life of me agree with any of this.

The truth? I'm just faking it. Constantly fabricating this wall around the nervous scared boy that I really feel I am. The whole conversation puts the idea of confidence to scrutiny. Is it courage to be completely scared out of your wits, but jump into the lion's den anyway? Should it be blamed on depression? Should it be blamed on anything at all?

I feel like I'm forcing myself to find these answers out on my own. For what good, I do not know. I desperately crave social interaction, social support, and the like. I just don't feel it's really solving anything to push these problems on someone else to help solve. Will I come out of the pit wearing a new lion fur loincloth or will I spend the last minutes of this crazy ride in the various damp confines of the pride's collective stomachs?

Time will tell I guess.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

I don't give my consent, yet still judge myself lacking. Logic be damned.

On Your Lonesome

How do we cope with loneliness? Do you embrace it and try to defeat it by remaining alone or does winning the fight involve leaning on compatriots and peers? I'd like to hear of someone with the mental fortitude and steel resolve to overcome loneliness... alone.

I often attempt to best this beast by facing it head on. Is that even an option? Is it possible to stave off the hordes of negative thoughts and ideas when you have no camaraderie to rely on for moral support?

At one point I wholeheartedly thought so. The power of the human brain is an astonishingly amazing thing.

Part of my fragile psyche believed(s) that it is indeed possible, with enough self induced brainwashing, to trump the feeling of being alone and impossibly disconnected from the world and its inhabitants.

Sometimes, I believe that's why we seek out romantic relationships. I believe that, unless you're in the small minority of lucky individuals who doesn't need social interaction, each of us NEEDS at least one other living (non-fictional) person to bare your soul to.

Therein lies another prong of this tangent. Is it fair of me to ask another individual for help with my baggage? The manly man inside of me believes, to this second, that there are crosses for each of us to carry, alone. I think, I think that...I think...anyway, that it's not unfair to expect someone to hold the door for you while you tote around your big, proverbial, invisible cross.

If you're any half-way kind of decent, you'll open the door for someone with full hands. It's no different if the door is imaginary.. and the cargo is a big made-up lowercase T.

Then again, sometimes the act of surrounding yourself with support still does nothing to sate the feelings of emptiness and the vast void of space around you. Sometimes the dog robs me of my capability to connect with other individuals, regardless of how hard I try.

Always questions, few answers.

Back to the point, if there was ever one to be made. There is nothing wrong with accepting a little bit of help to deal with issues of the brain and heart, just don't use people as a crutch. You have to be able to stand on your own to provide a positive impact on the world.

I'd also like to talk about fabricated confidence sometime. Self-defeating thoughts that prevent me from asking a brilliant beautiful girl out, or facing a crowd of people... is this even depression or some other character flaw? Maybe tomorrow.

Stagnation and a Bandicoot

It's been a while.

I've seen my share of ups and downs this pair of months since I've mentioned a word. I've come to realize, now more than ever, that I will never truly defeat this beast; only run far enough ahead of the monstrous canine to catch my breath for a brief respite.

A metaphor that keeps cropping in my mind involves Crash Bandicoot, an old PlayStation mascot. Crash, our unlikely protagonist, finds himself fleeing from a giant boulder of crushing death. The unique gameplay in this level (at least at the time) includes Crash running towards the camera, moving closer to the player. The gamer doesn't see what obstacle he has to avoid or pit to circumvent until seconds before it appears. The focus is always on the looming deathball rolling ever more rapidly in your direction.

This is what I've succumbed to. I can't see what's in front of me. I don't know where I'm going. I don't even want to write about it anymore. These words ring with nothing but yawn-inducing boredom to me; it's becoming a struggle to make myself believe I don't come across as a distracted youth making fart noises.

That's the thing about this disease. I steals my confidence, my drive, my motivations. It robs me of my convictions and persuades me to give in to stagnation.

 Stop moving and I stagnate.

If I stop running I'll get my innards squished out by the spherical hazard, but I'm becoming increasingly tired of holding down my left analog stick, so to speak. I realize that the only way to get back the guy in the mirror that I can stomach looking at is to continue to move forward, even though the vast majority of myself is yelling for the white flag. It's not worth it. Why try so hard? You're better off just sitting in stagnation, in this mind's mire you've been cursed to inhabit. Why waste energy if you'll never make it to firm ground.

...there's the catch though. I know there are dry islands in this muck. There are places where I can wring out my socks and make heads or tails of this "life" thing. However, I can't stay at these places forever. I have to jump back in to the mud and move forward again, away from this monster of a boulder, or boulder of a monster, whatever it is. I know this, I just don't want to put in the effort.

Procrastinating the end of my own stagnation.

I could list all the ways in which I've fallen off the wagon lately, all the progress I've made and then subsiquently lost. This serves no purpose to repeat. Mistakes were made. Mistakes will be made. I believe the only thing I can do, the only thing anyone suffering this disease can do, is to continue to get your socks wet.

Hypocritically, I currently dwell on my mistakes. I currently wade in my self manufactured sludge of lethargy. Realize that I know this is no way to live or even exist. There comes a time soon where I need to get over myself and move forward. It's either that or we just decide to give up entirely.

My Name Was Brett

Preface: I'm not actually going through with anything "stupid". 

I asked or a sign as I walked with tears in my eyes tonight; I got one one. At 8:00 pm, I received a unplanned internet message from a beautiful soul I hadn't thought of or had any communication with in years. You know who you are and you did, infact, save my life tonight. Thank you beyond measure.

I was just writing this when I got that message and I think it's really important that I continue to write this. Who knows what will happen tomorrow. There are no reasons to sit on these words. Words only matter when they're out for the world to see, not held as a secret within one's head.

The letter is as follows...

----
I walked past a black dog tonight, it was ominous.
The last song I heard was 'Home.'
I was five feet and nine inches tall.
I had blue eyes, and light brown hair.
I wasn't very good looking, but I liked to pretend.
My nose sat slightly crooked, and my right cheekbone made of plastic.
I was absolutely crazy about Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters.
I liked drawing, but never considered myself any good.
I adored music, but could never strum a guitar.
I wrote words, but to me, they were only gibberish.
I wanted to be a muscular sex icon, but ended up a skinny boy with imperfect skin.
I lied a lot more than I would have liked; it wasn't until recently that I prided myself in honesty.
I had a habit of falling madly in love with the idea of a girl before she even opened her mouth.
I loved. I lost. I lived.

I am gone now.

Writing about yourself in the past tense is a little strange.

This wasn't anyone's fault. What happened isn't to do with any one event or any particular day or moment, but was a heavily calculated decision that I'd been putting together in my head for seemingly years. This has nothing to do with God or the devil. This is not fate, nor anyone's burden to bear. This is one young man's decision, one young man's choice.

My own worst enemy has always been myself, since I was capable of thought. I undermined my hopes and dreams and sabotaged my own success throughout these short twenty four years.

I used to be known for my "stone-cold demeanor", but ended as a hopelessly romantic blubbering buffoon; unable to keep my thoughts inside. Hell, look at me right now- putting this out for the public to see.

There was never any logical or rational reasoning behind my depression. This is what I struggled with most. Why was I so damn sorrowful when I can look in any direction and have overwhelming waves of support and love. My family couldn't have been any better or loved any more. They supported me in everything I did and I will always cherish them.

There are hundreds of people that influenced my life and I'd like to reach out to a few of them in particular.

My best friend throughout adolescence was Jordan. He was there for my first skinned knees and grass stained pants. I remember catching crawdads together and hitting rocks with plastic bats in his backyard. We fell apart in middle school, and even more in high school. He still had a special place in my history and I valued his friendship greatly. I still remember that time you "accidently" threw a heavy metal toy truck at my head.

The most embarrassing moment of my life was peeing my pants in the third grade. Jake and Donna will remember this. Don't make me laugh so hard.

Donna, Carlie, and Doug were my second family. I'm so happy I had them in my life, because they made me who I was and taught me a lot of the basics of growing up. I miss Patches and Tweety. I was recently able to witness Carlie's marriage. I was truly happy for her and know they have a great future together. Donna put up with a lot of young me. Growing up, in that house, I will always hold those memories fondly.

My first fight was against a boy named Mike. I ran like a coward. He cleaned my clock.

The first other person I would consider my brother was Jake. Jake was there when I first started battling this demon. We fought digital wars together at night. During the following days we spoke with fervor of our triumphs and defeats as makebelieve Navy Seals. I let the relationship with Jake dwindle out, even though he recently had reached out and tried to be part of my life. I always felt like I was cramping his style and he was much better with the ladies. I didn't want to be "Jake's skinny friend" anymore. I hope your family the best Jake and wish I could have met your wife in person; she seems like an amazing lady. I love you man.

The fairer sex that, as of writing this, I still struggled with talking to. Every girl on the planet was a thousand times out of my league. I had a nasty habit of "showing all my cards" at once and scaring them away. I always figured I'd just die alone; this was easier to swallow than letting someone else down for the rest of my life. I could never even draw or paint women. I always felt that I couldn't do the feminine mystique any sort of justice. If there is one perfect work of art ever created on this planet, it was woman, unable to be replicated.

My first crush, which still kind of persists today, was for a girl name Samantha. Then there was a girl named Kristin; who is brilliant- whoever ends up with her is lucky beyond measure. My first kiss was outside of Dakota Middle School with Miranda. I never confronted them about these crushes. I never possessed any kind of courage. I had my sights on destinations unreachable to me and knew it.

It wasn't until 21 until I considered myself in true love. I had never had the thud of something supernatural in my chest just at seeing a woman; before words were even spoken. This was enough of an otherworldly nudge to actually get me to ask her out on a date. Me, Brett Hamre, asked a girl on a date. Which she turned down, but I persisted. Man, was I persistent.

If you're reading this. You are one of the most stubborn, hard-headed, headstrong, beautiful, intelligent, extroverted, brilliant women to have ever graced my path. The three years I knew you were some of the best years of my life. You gave me something to live for other than myself. You actually opened me up for the first time of any of my friends. I learned to love and to acknowledge that I had real emotions. You opened up the proverbial can of worms and changed who I was, for the better, I think. Thank you for being my best friend for those days. I love you, and part of me always will.

Cory and I shared thousands of hours together. He saved my life, on more than one occasion. Some of my fondest memories are not even on this physical Earth, but those manufactured in digital fantasy lands with him at my side. Slaying imaginary dragons and digital demons, nothing but pixels. I would call Cory my brother and I know he would do anything for me. He got me my first job and we used to spend hours sitting in that taco joint parking lot after closing time. Doing nothing but listening to music and talking about life. I love you man, thank you.

Patrick and I had our fights. We had greatly differing opinions on various different occasions and topics, but he was the first guy that I was actually capable of sharing deep emotions with. Patrick caused me to be level-headed and apologetic when I was not. He was there to talk about love. He was there to talk about sadness and self-worth. The first time I ever openly told another non-blood related male I loved them, without being affected by a near-death experience or heavy medication, was with Patrick. I think it might have been in a fast food joint too, I can't recall. I love you man, and hope the best for your future and family. Send Amanda my love too, and make her get that book published already.

Bob, physician-patient privilege, but thank you for the numerous times you've pried this beast off my back. I wouldn't have made it this far without you, payed by the hour or not. Thank you.

Thank to the various teachers that put up with me in their classes throughout the years and opened my mind to new knowledge and ideas. You have the most noble profession on the planet and you are the saints that walk amongst us.

Tyler was my "100%"

No one has ever seen so much of the darkness in me than Tyler has. Tyler saved my life too. He single-handedly fended off depression that night and words cannot express how much that means to me. The first time I was ever drunk was at Tyler's house, Bud Light with Lime, which is gross, was the poison of choice. I may not remember much of that night, but I know we had a good time. Tyler harbors more charisma than any man I know and I considered him a role model. I thought he was the smoothest-talking guy to walk on this planet and in many ways he most definitely is. He showed me a lot about the way the world works and I would kill for that man. He's stood by me in thick and thin and I only wish I was a better friend to him. Love you hombre. Don't worry about the last thing you said to me; I only remember the positive "shit".

John was the best boss I've ever had, but he was much more than that. He taught me about my faith and was there for me whenever I needed him to be. It's probably weird to say, but he was like a second father to me. I learned about hard work and what it means to be a goal-oriented man of faith from him. I only wish I was a better employee and that I could have had him in my family in the future. If people still wrote of normal men becoming saints in this day and age, there would be volumes about John. There are no words existing in the language of man to adequately convey how thankful I am for his friendship.

My mother and father are the most loving people I could ever possibly hope to know. I love my sister and wish that I hadn't gotten away from our relationship in those high school years. She is a talented, brilliant, beautiful young woman and I know she's going to take the world by surprise. My mother is the closest person I can relate to Maria Teresa on this great blue planet. She would do anything for anybody and I love you drastically Mom. You were always there for me, in every way I knew I needed and even those I didn't know that I did at the time. My father and I didn't talk much. We didn't say the L-word much, if ever. I love you, you beautiful bald man. You are my hero and I hope that if I live to make it to your age that I'm half the man you are. I know we don't say things much, but you mean more than anything in the world to me and I wouldn't change our father-son relationship for any other.

Tonya, Jennifer, Lisa "Chibbley", Brianna, Uncle Dale, Kyle, Hilary, Adam, Tony, Jason, Timmy, Eric, Chris, Sam, Jason, Phil, Darek, Brandon Terry, Jeramie, Ryan, Rachel, Julie, Luke, Leia, Gemini, Jinx, there are dozens of you; If I ever write a book, I will most assuredly include.

I'm being vulnerable because I believe now that showing vulnerability is true strength. Too many of us are ashamed of who we are, myself included, to tell the truth and be completely open. I am no longer willing to be judged by what people perceive me as, in this persona I have built up around me as a shield. I was not a perfect happy-go-lucky charismatic guy. I was broken and lacked patience. I wasn't smart and I definitely wasn't a saint. I was never a ladies' man and never will be.

I continue to write this letter, even knowing that I'm not going through with anything drastic... because, well, because people should know who I am and love or hate me accordingly. I will never play the "game" of relationships again, life is too short. Look at me, willing to cut it down at twenty-four and some change. I'm not going to impress people anymore. There is no more pretending I'm okay when I'm really, absolutely, not.

I don't know what I future holds for me. I don't know if I'm destined to be a hermit in some forest somewhere, or eventually find another soul mate and live happily ever after. I have no, absolutely no, idea what I'm supposed to do with my life-- or even, at this stage in the drama, what I want to do when I "grow-up". I do know a few things. I will continue to write. I will learn the guitar. I will never send another girl flowers while heavily inebriated.

To love greatly, you have to open yourself to pain and ridicule. To enjoy life deeply you have to take the hopeless parts of the story too, if only to appreciate the ooey-gooey heartfelt parts all the more.

I think that in the future, I will look back at this and remember the place I was in. I don't know if I'll be in a better or worse place, but it's good to remember the path we traveled. Maybe this way, being painfully open, some other lost soul will have that elusive glimmer of hope.

My name was is Brett Steven Hamre. I'd like to live for a bit longer I think.

[Insert Foot in Mouth.]

Man is free; yet we must not suppose that he is at liberty to do everything he pleases, for he becomes a slave the moment he allows his actions to be ruled by passion. -Giacomo Casanova

I am a schmuck.
I am no poet.
No scholar, no musician,
no painter, no writer,
no artist.
There exists no evidence describing me as a strongman,
as a handsome bloke, 
a gentleman, fictional Don Juan, 
a shade of Casanova,
an interesting individual.

The confidence I carry with me is nothing but carefully fabricated disinformation, or just manufactured by firewater. If to "err is human", then to 'fuck up' is Brett Hamre. 

Fanciful ideas and big thoughts do not produce change. Imagining one's self as good looking does not change other's opinions of you. Imagining you are confident and sure-footed will not stop you from putting your foot in your mouth or making an ass of yourself.

I'm growing increasingly tired of my brain's never-ending emotional rollercoaster. Two days ago, I was moonwalking in front of the bathroom mirror. I felt like I could take on any insurmountable task. Today? Today I want to drive my truck to the coast and toss myself from a misty cliff, the waters raging against rock down below. We all get the 'I want to complain' to people moment. That attempt at unloading some of your pain to others, willing or unwilling, to help carry the invisible burden.

Increasingly common is the idea that I will pass away alone. No children, no close friends, no lovers by the bed as I drift off into whatever exists beyond the veil of mortality. I realize this being a self-tortured soul is probably the reason for this. "No one can love you if you don't love yourself," a friend I used to know told me that one night. This isn't about complaining that I'm bored or sad that I'm lonely on a Saturday night that you'll see many status updates or friends' feeds referencing if you just look at any social media (though this depends on your circle of friends). It's being frightened to stop watching TV, reading, playing video games, or anything whatsoever. When I allow myself to stop being preoccupied is when the "enemy" begins to march. I've stayed the execution this long and will probably continue to do so. Just know that the light at the end of tunnel may just be a brief moment of solace before you find yourself slowly feeling your way through the next dark damp pit. Don't hit your shins on any wayward furniture.

What comes at the point where we can produce no more tears? What is the point when there is no pain anymore? I'm at that point... numb.

I don't request sympathy. I don't write these words to make anyone feel sorry for me. Do not take it that way, non-existent audience. I write these to reveal my demons, to be openly vulnerable for all to see. So that if one person haphazardly stumbled about these electronic ones and zeros some day, they can follow the tale of one young "man's" journey into the deepest parts of human sorrow and hopelessness. They can read along as this 'protagonist' eventually overcomes this monster, or succumbs to the pressure of its unrelenting maw.

Analog [Part 3]

Before we get started, my Composition teacher shared [this!] with the class today; it's great. You should probably take a few minutes and watch it.

If you want follow the walk from the beginning, here are some handy embedded links [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 2.5]

You can also click on the archive to the... right? Right? Right!

I'll preface this again, once more, saying that I'm not intending to be a "bible thumper" or sell you my beliefs like some sort of starchy-suited used car salesman. I'm still not 100% sure what I believe in. Question everything.

Now that we have that out of the way... where was I again?

...

"Faith: Belief without evidence in what is told by one who speaks without knowledge, of things without parallel." -Ambrose Bierce 

I'm getting a bit hazy in my old age, but follow me here as I try to recall the events of that Thursday night. This is the part where I'd clear my throat and we'd see the camera pan to the sky and transition back to a young Kevin Bacon staring at this plastic rectangular cuboid.

There was a breeze in the air, as I remember. I was just traveling by my old stomping grounds, Dakota Middle School. As I passed by I noticed the future generation of young people and their caretakers walking with them nervously into the building for what was, now apparent to me, some kind of new student orientation. I remember this moment and time froze. I was rushed back in my mind's eye to this younger version of me leaning against this concrete retaining wall. I was even smaller of stature than today, wearing slightly too loose gym clothes. I still remember the first phone my parents gave me, this brick hard plastic labeled Kyocera something-or-other. I remember waiting here so often for rides after track practice, fidgeting with that piece of cutting edge technology. It didn't even have color, but the lights sure did flash and played a killer game of Snake.

The power of the mind to whisk us away... this ability for us to recall the smallest details about a memory just by being exposed a scent, sound or old retaining wall, is magic. Forget science, this here folks is a divine gift (or curse) from the Big Guy Upstairs.

I drifted back to reality. I had already walked about a mile. Seemed like this journey had only taken a fraction of a second. The minds ability to construe the passage of time and brutal power of daydreaming will always, always, color me some shade of whimsy. Why was I walking this way anyway? Why were my feet shuffling along this lonely sidewalk.

"YOUR SHIRT ROCKS!" I heard yelled from a passing SUV. This was a snap back to reality. Yes, the Foo Fighters do indeed rock rad sir and/or madame.

I wasn't alone at all, but it certainly felt that way. The traffic along the road was whirring by at frenzied speeds, but I was the only one on this long stretch of sidewalk. I continued to think about what I had just stumbled on before.

TIME.

There is was again, this burning image of neon green paint in my head. These letters annoying me,

"Go away!"

"You're not a sign!"

"You're just coincidence!"

This was the brain's shallow attempt to rationalize why this resonated so powerfully.

...and let me tell you good people of the internet, time is indeed a cure to what ails ya.

[Now there's going to be a Part 4. Lucky us right!?]

August 30th, 2013

I promise the next note will be the conclusion to Analog; swear it. No really, I swear.

“Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.” -Einstein

        I can't make this stuff up.

        You wouldn't be interested in a short retelling of a Friday night in my world? Okay, stop reading.

If you are- follow me on this text based adventure!

Let's start when I wrote my last blog post "Green-Eyed Monster". I jotted down some of my thoughts around four in the afternoon. (This is currently off the list; being edited.) I was jealous of my close friend, Tyler the Hair Gel. I won't go into the details of why or what, but needless to say, I was jealous. I don't run from confrontation. I embrace it, sometimes even thriving in debate or passionate wordplay. 

        I was texting him pretty regularly. Words like asshole, jerk, dickface, chucklehead, and douchebag were exchanged.  You know, the words of modern day poets and scholars. In any case, between us, these words are the ways we affectionately communicate with each other. It's a pretty strange friendship, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
        He shows up at my house to talk about it out of the blue. This is why we get along. He's not afraid to sort crap out and doesn't run from positive conflict. Even in the event that I'm being irrationally stupid or angry, like I was, he showed up anyway to sift through the emotional garbage.

        Fast forward a bit.

        We sort through crap and start chewin' the fat like usual. My favorite thing to do lately is sit on a curb somewhere and have a smoke with him. Not a real smoke, but one of those clove cigarettes (Djarum Bali Hai's this time)... you know, the classy way to get lung gunk installed. We sat in front of my house and talked about whatever we talked about. I don't remember specifically, but it's always hilarious and good-hearted; even when we use words like asshole, jerk, dickface, chucklehead, or douchebag.
        It's right about this time I decided I was going to reach out to this girl I've been talking to a bit. I texted her to see if she wanted to hit a movie later. Texting, yeah, don't judge me- I already think it's stupid. Regardless, that's what I ended up doing. She returned with a suggestion of some ice cream. I'll never turn down ice cream. I'll leave the details of that part of the night out. Not my place to tell the whole internet. Long story short, I had a good time.
        I checked my phone after parting ways with her. Tyler was downtown at Dublin's and wanted me to come hang out with a few friends. Already in that general area, I thought "why the hell not?" The clock was hovering dangerously close to midnight, but I'd been pumping myself with caffeine all day and was feeling pretty sociable. On the way over to that side of town 'Times Like These' (Here's a link.) hit my speakers. I don't know what it was about this song but I turned it down and started talking at the sky again, to the big man upstairs.
        The conversations must be getting pretty repetitive for his inbox. Always I ask for a sign and for the wisdom and insight to see such a sign when it presents itself. To be open to not walking right by one, oblivious. I feel like one of those people that just doesn't take the hint lately. Nevertheless, this is what I open dialog about. Maybe it should be considered monologue?
        As I pull in to a parking spot on Main Street, the song ends. Some group of half-drunk "tough guys" whistle something or other about my truck. I'm sorry I keep my truck clean I guess? I feel pretty badass in a leather jacket. I realize this is silly, because I'm a 140 pounds soaking wet. Cross the street at the white walking man, present my terribly photographed license to the bouncer sitting at the door, walk in and see the trio. I sit myself down and look around at the crowd, interesting group people. There's a bunch of yelling conversation going on, the live band was loud--- and terrible. I've never heard someone slaughter Billy Jean so... so... it was awful. I imagined that I could do a better rendition by putting a guitar into a blender; chasing it with some spare gravel and a stray cat that just happens to be in heat.
        To my overall point and theme. I ran into her not twenty minutes after ending my conversation with the Sky. Is that a sign? You tell me. As you'd guess it, that love on sight thing kinda plagues me, but she's trying to move on and I'm trying to move on so I didn't press the issue. I felt like I was going to start secreting poetry from every pore or something. I wanted to tell her how beautiful she still looks, how my heart still races, that kind of really terribly cheesy cliche verbiage. So instead, I decided to try my hand at twerking. I'm kidding, don't picture that.
        We moved on and I tried not to stick around as to make her uncomfortable or anything. In any case, the deep sloppy bass of that dingy dark room was not doing anything for me anyway. Though I did want to clap for the guy attempting to do his best impersonation of a dancing robot. It was not a good impersonation of a dancing robot. By the by, the crew moved on to Murphy's to check out the happenings down there.
        Outside the night sky at that pub, the women were stupidly good-looking. We kept pushing each other to walk up and mingle and flirt, but whenever one of us got the courage (I wasn't interested *see above) we pretty much got shot down. A fourth of us were even dressed in suits! I would like to say that the very intoxicated duder that walked up and introduced himself as 'Bobby America' was absolutely hilarious. This cat had a fake mullet, cowboy boots, and an awful patriotic tank top on to go with his persona. Oh man, it was terrible.
        To bring this inane run-on text to an end and validate my point; I'm torn between what are coincidences and what are indeed otherworldly signals from some greater being. Only thing I can really do is continue to question my faith and solidify what I believe. Just maybe things will become clearer with enough time. If you're out there reading this, and you know who you are, I'm still head over heels. Am I sorry? No.
        In even simpler summary: Thanks to a pretty girl letting me buy her an ice cream, great friends, and Bobby America; the Black Dog stayed home last night.

[ 100 % ] *Apologies for any terrible grammar errors or run-ons, I wrote this in about 15 minutes. Out to door! Away!

Vanity, Solomon, & 'gen·u·ine·ness'

Mandatory listening today: "Word Forward" Foo Fighters [YouTube Link]

“Enjoy life with the woman whom you love all the days of your fleeting life which He has given to you under the sun; for this is your reward"...Ecclesiastes 9:9 ” 

I promise I'll finish 'Analog' soon enough; it's got a positive ending, but right now is time for this:
Bitter today.  Very bitter. *The overall tone of this note will probably be pretty negative.

The world has finally broken me of trying to be altruistic; at least for the time being. Altruism does nothing but get you stepped on. It's in the nature of most people to take all they can get. I feel like a withered husk of a man. I've been sucked dry of all ambition and inspiration to continue to be a "good" person; tossed aside like yesterday's garbage.

There was a point where everyday I told myself that it's not about me, it's about leaving no negative impact on the world. That's all we can hope to do for our lives. However, this is a pipe-dream. Because even the best laid plans... blah blah blah. I can consider what I'm doing to be positive and good, but it can always be interpreted in a negative or self-serving light. Even the prettiest woman on the planet can be cast into the "ugly" misnomer by being the victim of poor lighting.

Every seemingly selfless act of sacrifice or kindness can be defined as the opposite, depending on how you look at it. I've been working my way through Ecclesiastes this week. Bit by bit I consume that scripture and let it resonate before consuming more. Initially, it's very pessimistic, but it becomes very instructive. It should be noted that I'm not a 'Bible person' in any sense of the meaning. The general theme of this particular Old Testament book is to describe the absolute vanity of the human experience.

Today I am drastically losing to this depression. 

This is my point. It is not possible to be 100% genuine all the time. Even Gandhi had selfish moments. There is a time for preservation and time for sacrifice. I'm not capable of giving all of myself all of the time, despite what I'd like to think. Despite the idea of the man I want to be, it's not just possible... and I realize that. I can't rid my mind of all the selfish thoughts. It is not possible for anyone to be that perfect. We are all flawed people. There is a subtle beauty to that statement. Perfection is not beautiful- despite what today's media will tell you about beauty and fashion.

Embracing the world's flaws and recognizing that they are indeed very much real is the only way to really plausibly exist. Nothing can be covered up with a fresh coat of paint or the most expensive make-up forever. Things fade, the world decays.

--Today also marks two weeks since I've said a word to her or looked up anything about her. Ultimately I continue to think about her as the one, unless I magically wake up one day with a new clarity or realization. That hasn't happened for about three years though, so I won't hold my breath. Waking up an old man and still kicking myself over the 'one that got away' is, well, something I just don't want to happen.

To sum up my bullshit for today (pardon the rambling):
True beauty exists when you recognize something for it's flaws and faults, and still manage to love it anyway. There is no perfection; save for some ideas in math I guess. I doodled in my math classes; so I wouldn't know for sure.

Analog [Part 2.5 | Interlude]

Looks like what drives me crazy
Don't have no effect on you--
But I'm gonna keep on at it
Till it drives you crazy, too.”
 -Langston Hughes

We should take a breather from the tale of the walk for a bit. I need to talk about a weird connection I have for a few paragraphs once again. Bear with me.

I don’t believe in a lot of silly things, but I do have a curious mind. Mankind just can’t explain everything there is with science. I don’t know if I’d go as far to say I believe in ghosts, or superpowers- but I believe that for every ten-thousand fake palm-readers out there, there has to be at least one that has true abilities. For every-ten thousand self-proclaimed psychics on the planet… there has to be that one; just one that can do something that borders on ridiculous. [9/3/2013: I poached this paragraph for an English paper that just happened to be related; it's not plagiarism if It's my own work right? Good.]

The reasons I say this is because since I’ve met her; I’ve had this connection I can’t shut off. My close friend Tyler asked me the other week if I believed in ‘astral-projection’ and that sort of fantastical tomfoolery. We weren’t drinking, but it was the kind of truthful conversation you can only have with very close friends, or when you’re inebriated to the point of wobbling.

Sitting there, an evening last week, I stared at the moon as we burned some old ruined furniture in the make-shift fire pit. The stars were just starting to peak out and a cool breeze pushed the long blades of glass back and forth. Something about a roaring fire under the starlit sky; coupled with Looking Glass Radio on Pandora creates this pure magic atmosphere. I’m not sure of the entire equation that adds up to create that ‘mood,’ but those things are... well... magic.

I’m getting off topic here. The conversation was enlightening. I was glad that someone I knew so well had experienced something sort of close to this kind of connection to someone else that I had been having. The feeling is supernatural. There’s no other way to put it in words. I don’t know if any of you have had that; but just knowing when I loved one was having a good time, thousands of miles away. Having a gnawing pit in the stomach when you, when I, feel like that other being is having a stressful day.

As of this typing this sentence, it’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve had any sort of interaction with this person. And every day I fight with my brain in the morning about this ‘connection.’ Feels like I’m being haunted by a non-frightening ghost.

Sensible? Not one iota. The first thing in the morning that brings a smile to my face is remembering that terrifically intoxicating laugh, those hauntingly beautiful eyes. Those thoughts spin around me, in a good way. Every morning, every single morning, my eyes slowly open and I smile. The first thought it always good in my mind, but it also means I’m still fucking nuts. Is this is realizing that my heart still works? If so that’s a reason to smile I think.

The difference between now and months ago, is I finally accept it. There is no more trying to sever that tie. There was a time where the first half hour of the day was spent disregarding this feeling; telling myself that it was stupid and irrational and served no purpose. I just accept it now as part of who I am.  Out of the millions of little pieces in my body and soul containing parts of what make up Brett Steven Hamre… one bit will always be that.

You’d think after following all the ‘rules’ in the ‘book’ about getting over someone I’d feel less of something, but I don’t. Honestly, I don’t.  Again, proving once more I’m meant for the isolating confines of one of those loony bins. 

Continue to move forward Hamre. One step at a time.

In any case, back to the walk...

[Next: http://bwtbd.blogspot.com/2013/09/analog-part-3.html] 

Analog [Part 2]

“All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

 I crossed the streets headed towards West Boulevard. I waited patiently at every crosswalk; seems I hit every single orange blinking hand that night.

I reached down into my pocket, and felt the smooth plastic of the cassette case. I know why I was heading this way. I should just swing by quick and drop this off.

Right here, at the stop sign on the corner of Kansas City Street and 9th, I started to have an open dialog with God.  I asked him to show me some kind of sign. I would settle for anything right now. I could feel the cold grasp of depression and negative thoughts starting to seep their way into my capped head. I talk about that sense of slipping… knowing what comes next and not being able to talk yourself out of it.Many people wouldn't really consider myself religious, including myself, but I've found a firmer grasp on my faith lately. Going through this... brain shit. 

So I focused on the shuffling of my feet.

I started analyzing my gait. I compared myself to other people around me and their motions. I studied the running children, chasing parents, even the slightly drunk locals doing their version of ‘parkour’ off of city benches and trash cans. They must have thought I was drunk; having an open conversation with myself in public like I was.

Measuring it against my shallow, tired, dragging steps; I started to notice more of the world around me. The sidewalk was clean and new at the start of my journey, but as I made my way towards the residential area of West Boulevard I noticed cracks. Small and cosmetic at first, they quickly turned into potholes and apparent mantraps. This pavement had seen its fair share of traffic. Old, almost ancient, crumbling concrete stretched out ahead of me. Overgrown bushes and weeds sprang out like miniature jungles out of the neglected yards.

I forgot where it was exactly, but I noticed something right below my shoes, one word.

TIME

‘Time’ is the word that triggered this fire. Click. Deep in my chest something came to life. I walked past it at first, but quickly doubled back. It was spray-painted in nearly neon green. Must have been hastily tagged, there was obviously no stencil used. It wasn’t clean or pretty, but it said what it said. I slowly moved toward on the path and the idea began to resonate with me. You must have had that feeling before; when you’re almost asleep and you jolt up with a start like someone punched you... or that unmistakable feeling of falling backwards. Oh? Just me then.

What purpose would someone have to put that word right there? Was this the big guy upstairs having a laugh? He must have enlisted some hoodlum to place this in my path the previous night. At first, I chalk it up to coincidence. It can’t be some sign; that’s stupid science-fiction stuff. What does this one word mean anyway? The thought didn’t go away though. It persisted and I couldn’t shake it. Again, I reached into my pocket. I was going to drop this tape off dammit. It’s why I came this way… right? It had to be.

I made my why to my destination and opened up the box. It was the middle one, ‘C’ I think, I dropped stuff off here before. Off-shade of white, tannish colored mail boxes were in front of me. I sat here for a minute, staring at the stupid tape in my hand. I ran my thumbs smoothly across this analog thing like it was made of cursed silver; or some fictional jewelry fated for a one-way trip to Mt. Doom. (There’s your weekly geek reference.)

Time.

I shrugged this idea off again and placed this bit of plastic neatly in the center of the box. I turned to walk away, but that same feeling hit me in the chest again. I doubted making this action. (*See Brett’s ‘gut feeling.’)  I took the tape back and tucked it safely in my back pocket.

I started a one-sided conversation again. I swear that little kid across the street thought I was nuts.

[ Next: http://bwtbd.blogspot.com/2013/08/analog-25-interlude.html ]

Analog [Part 1]

I’m going to quote Dave Grohl, because I can. It’s my note. I do what I want.

“People are so into digital recording now they forgot how easy analog recording can be.” –D. Grohl

This has no deeper meaning, but it’s from Dave- so it is law. 

I walked for four or five miles last night; no real planned destination- just walked. When a man walks I don’t think much thought goes into it. One foot in front of the other, right? It’s interesting when you’re 'soul-searching' and analyzing yourself how many little things jump out at you. I, for one, tend to scuff my shoes on the sidewalk when I’m meandering, when I have no real purpose. The soles slide roughly across the cracked pavement and this creates a rather therapeutic sound to me.

This constant pace… this subtle nuance that I don’t tend to notice usually. Most of my friends would tell you I walk too fast usually. “Purpose-driven” or “in a hurry,” they would remark. I always got that when I worked at an electronics retailer. Customers would exclaim I was going to run someone over. (As if 130~lb me would be capable of that, maybe a small child; maybe one of those in the stuffed animal leashes parents put on them these days.)

See, I spent a chunk of the day getting books for this college thing I’m attempting ($$$) and splicing together and analog mix tape. A cassette?! Who the hell does that anymore?

Let me explain. Even growing up in the digital age and knowing my way around the binary switches of a monolithic operation system—I believe that the analog medium is something truly magic. The old and beat-up Sony radio my dad used to take on camping trips; listening to scratchy songs from my mom’s 45 record collection (I’m looking at you ‘A Horse With No Name’), cutting together the best songs from Weird Al’s first CDs into a Brett’s Greatest Most Awesome Weirdest Mixiest Mix… these are examples of analog wizardry at its finest. If you can tell me that you can’t hear something more pure when you compare an old Creamaudio cassette to an .mp3 from today, well, you’re doing it wrong and probably a terrible person.  

I digress. I spent a few hours figuring out how to use my old man’s top-of-the-line state-of-the-art Sony TC-FX6C stereo cassette deck. (You know:http://www.thevintageknob.org/sony-TC-FX6.html) I finally figured out how to start recording a tape. Tapes, by the way, are difficulty to find nowadays.  I piped audio from my computer to the deck, then back out to my speakers. Listen carefully to the mix. You can’t easily skip around here ladies and gents. The Song ends and doesn’t sound right, or doesn’t adequately lead into the next song properly… REDO.

Almost taking up the entire 90 minutes allotted, I felt pretty accomplished. I added a little something after the end if anyone decides to listen all the way through. I was feeling pretty good about this mix tape. The smudges on the back of the hastily written track list irritated my inner anal-retentive self, but it adds character I think. I slide the mix into my jeans to possibly hand it off to the person it’s intended for later this evening. If you’ve been following my story- you can probably guess who.

Back to the reason I was walking. I decided it would be good to get out of the house for a while, and headed down to Rapid City Summer Nights with the rents. Figured I might get a free drink or see some cute girls, that kind of thing.

When I got to Independent Ale House, well, I wasn’t feeling it. I needed to move, I needed to pound the pavement. Not for a job, not for a specific reason, not for any real purpose. I just felt like I needed to. The gut feeling I often refer to, this caused me to meander west.

Continued in next note…

[Part 2: http://bwtbd.blogspot.com/2013/08/analog-part-2.html ]

August 17th. 2013

"They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself"
-Warhol

 Each second without her seems like an age.  An entire era has passed in my head. 

Ancient and powerful civilizations have risen from nothing, mud huts.  This village has climbed to ultimate power and technical prowess; smooth marble temples and pristine golden statues. In the internal clock in my imagination an age has passed. These fictional empires have seen their cities crumble to greed and pride. They have seen the end of days. Dust now. Ruins.

The timespan in my mind's eye; an aeon.

Solid rock to granules of sand. 

People tell me that you’ll find another one, that the second love is always stronger. What about the rare lucky man that finds his the first shot? Settle for something less? pfft. Malarkey I say to the former. Malarkey.  

What if the second love is the same person, just rekindled? Questions nobody has the answer to.

How many people out there would you defiantly jump in front of an unrelenting train for? How often does an emotion like that come along and give you the strength to take up arms and wage a war against unknown odds?  Once.  I really do believe that. Once.  That feeling is worth fighting for. Even below-the-belt type fighting is acceptable-- claw, scratch, punch, spit, bite.

Fisticuffs will be had, friends.

Alas, it seems to be an effort in futility. I spend so much time sitting on my thumbs… anxiously I might add.  It seems the wall in front of me in two hundred stories tall and I only have three feet of rope. 

I continue to move toward an for an apparently aimless goal. There is no real driving force behind the man- besides the need to stay busy. The prospect of classes don’t particularly interest me, busy-work on my truck or yard upkeep just seems a stopgap to delay the dog. I'm capable of living and enjoying life and what it has to bring. It's just that the prospect of living life without that palette seems much less vivid and colorful.

Sometimes, like right now, it feels like I’m trying to stop an elephant with some fly paper.

'C'est la vie' ... is that right?