It was her eyes
a slight mistiness, the
ending the
evolution toward
away from
the slide into
a feeling, sense
the loss of feeling
it was her eyes
watching
seeing, believing until
it wasn’t, the pause
of belief
the sadness of
realization
the irony of knowing
it was her eyes
that showed
it all, the end
the gravity dragging
fall toward
nothingness
toward empty
toward
absence of empathy
it was her eyes
that I didn’t see
didn’t notice
didn’t
understand
until her eyes
told me
it was
too late.

Imagine you’re standing in the middle of a shady forest, surrounded by lush greenery, palms, ferns and tall trees…a slight breeze cooling your skin. You stand quietly, listening to the silence of nature knowing that nature is never exactly silent…your eyes are closed as you just let the world wash around and past you. This experience both touches you deeply…creating a stillness inside…and never touches you at all as it flows from the past to the future.

Now open your eyes and shake that feeling off…

…and start listening to the asshole standing in front of you, yelling about something you did or didn’t do that messed up something he wanted or didn’t want to have happen.

Big difference?

The point is that everything that you experience is an external stimulus, coming from outside of you and processed by your senses and made sense of internally. The asshole in front of you—as much as he’s yelling and attempting to make you feel like shit—is still only visible spectrum electromagnetic waves (what you see), and sound waves represented as varying air pressures (what you hear) washing over you.

You have a choice how you react to those stimuli.

There is nothing automatic or outside your control about the reactions you have to the stimuli; everything is a choice you are consciously and unconsciously making. Whether it’s a choice today or some choice you made twenty years ago and are just replaying that now…you are making a choice.

The feeling you have in the quiet forest is also your reaction to the visible spectrum electromagnetic waves (what you see) and the sound waves represented as varying air pressures (what you hear). The only deference is frequency and amplitude. Because these are the same, you actually have the power to react to his raving by assuming that you are standing in that quiet green forest and the noise erupting from him is merely the sound of nature…so…

…the next time that asshole is standing in front of you yelling…

…try to pick out the individual birds songs you hear.

Believe. Go. Do.

~TrevorZen

I was thinking about orgasms the other day…and ponies. More about the latter in a bit but I started thinking about orgasms from the internet where first I saw women attempt to sing during an orgasm then others, in a completely different forum, read a passage from a book during one. And I thought about the different orgasms I’ve seen and I realized that mostly it’s an age thing. Not always, but mostly orgasms changed as women got older…at least from my perspective.

I think you know what I mean.

For example, when a woman is young, an orgasm is like a surprise gift, something quite unexpected but definitely wanted. Like an untamed pony; quietly standing there until she gets on then it’s a mad rush to try to unseat her. It’s in her eyes—as it happens—with happy confusion crossing concerned delight crossing with…eventually uncontrollable giggles and smiles. There is no real control but simply holding on with legs pressed together and riding it out.

As she gets older, the pony grows up and she learns how to make the pony do simple tricks and go in the directions she wants, not where the pony wants…most of the time. In some cases, though, the pony gets spooked and takes off like a madman toward the hills and, again, it’s hold on until eventual collapse…and less giggling but always, always smiles.

Later in life, the pony is fully trained—if just a little tired—and does exactly what’s it’s supposed to do in the exact way it’s supposed to do. In some cases the pony has to be forced to keep going because it just doesn’t have the stamina or desire it once had. Again, it’s in her eyes, the determination and drive, the need to finish the ride successfully. At the end it’s less giggles, not as many smiles but definitely a sense of completion and satisfaction not gotten anywhere else.

And then there are the women who never got a pony…

…at least think there are.

Believe. Go. Do.

~TrevorZen

So I’ve been thinking about death recently. Haa ha, no, not in that way (although I’m sure there are some on this planet that surely wouldn’t mind if I disappeared) but in the sense of what I imagine it to be and if I should be afraid of it.

Before I got to death and dying, I first started out with thinking about fear, and how death plays into that. First, I had to rethink fear itself and kind of put it into context. I asked the question “When we fear something, what does that mean…really?” And the first thing that came to mind was the aftermath, the future…or what happens “after” the thing we fear happens.

Of course we all fear pain and suffering, that goes without saying, but I think we fear it on the long road versus in the moment. What I mean is that we don’t fear the bullet killing us instantly…we fear it not being so quick…and the long drawn out death or even maiming or crippling that allows us to live on afterward in constant pain and regret.

We fear living in a present where we remember and relive the moment of death (or near death) over and over.

So I think one significant aspect of fear is that it is all about looking back at what happened and the constant wonder about what we could have done different, who could have helped us, how we could have stopped happening the horrible thing that did happen.

And I realized that it’s not the thing…it’s the memory of the thing we fear.

And that lead me to death. Well, thinking about death…and as I thought about it—and I think you know that the idea of an Abrahamic heaven and hell just makes me giggle—it just became crystal clear that I can’t fear death because once it happens, in that nanosecond where my consciousness ends, there are no more memories, there is no “thinking” about what happened…no constant questioning or painful regret.

Simply, there is no memory of the thing…

…therefore there is nothing to fear.

But it’s a hard and long road wrapping my head around understanding the cessation of life, the complete stopping of thought, because I am thinking and having thoughts now and cannot imagine…not…thinking…in some yet to be played out future. But this realization that I don’t (more accurately as I strive forward that I “shouldn’t”) fear death is that it is a big chunk of thinking I no longer have to do…that I can just let it go…and that frees up all that extra time for living.

Which I’d much rather do.

Believe. Go. Do.

~TrevorZen

Meaningful and spare, the
thought filtered through
motions of sadness, through
time, throughout
what I thought of as
the end
she said goodbye with
no fanfare, no stifled
noises, nothing but all
that she ever was
and she ever was more
more
more than I
could ever be
I looked into the abyss, into
the crevasses and the deep
deep places
where lived dreams, where
lived tomorrows
and saw nothing now
she saw nothing then but
I thought…
a glimmer existed, a shadow
passed over and left
a mark, a small
monument to want, to need
to mutual
placeholders of love
and sex and
dreams
of tomorrow
but neither of us
felt the dream become
closer to real, closer
to what we hoped
dreamed
wanted
wished but
ultimately
saw fall away
and
she said
goodbye

Us humans (I enjoin myself to that species merely as a guess) are a weird and screwed up group of animals. By natural chance we have the intellectual and physical facilities to speak and create communications—books and art and reality TV shows—that allow us to both cooperate with, and compete for, the attention of the community of other humans around us.

In short, we’re all attention whores looking for some sugar.

So when I see the various incarnations of “What <insert seemingly inane multiple choice category> are you?” floating around I know I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am. Things like “Which Beatle are you?” or, “Which female superhero are you?” or (my personal favorite) “Which stomach bacteria are you?” are all over the internet and flooding Facebook at a seemingly ever increasing pace.

Of course, all of these intensely researched and deeply studied visual and multiple choice quizzes—because apparently the 7 billion humans on the planet can be effectively categorized into less than 20 different selections—are authored by some insignificant intern on some half-famous website who will then be responsible for aligning our innate sense of self to the absolutely and stunningly correct character on Game of Thrones or the amazingly perfect choice of which Barbie we’re most like.

But, please, don’t get me wrong here, I know that it is absolutely important for all of us, for the fundamental good of society itself, to deeply understand exactly which minor celebrity on some forgotten television show we are the most like and to then immediately broadcast that revelation to everyone we know on every possible social network we can access.

Without this facility, mankind itself might perish from the face of the planet.

In fact, I am now so attuned to the vital nature and absolute necessity of filling out every single one of these asinine quizzes that I just finished the painstaking selection process on Buzzfeed for finding out exactly which internet-famous grumpy asshole I am most like.

Buzzfeed says I am most like me.

Go figure.

This is the conceit of progressives…that they know best about <insert highly controversial subject here> and that their answers are the only correct answers. It doesn’t matter that they have little to no experience in the subject matter…you see, they have “principles” that override actual real world experience. Additionally they have academics in shining ivory towers churning out reams and reams of massively complicated programs and policies—designed to be paid for by other people—who will then receive no benefit whatsoever from the programs they are paying for. But I digress…the question is, “How much should a CEO get paid?”

How the hell should I know.

And that my friends is the point. I have no idea of his/her education, work experience, technical background, family history…nothing…nor do I know anything about the inner workings of the corporation, the compensation committee, the organizational structure…basically how anyone, let alone the CEO, gets compensated whether it’s money or stock or shiny red apples. I do know one thing though…

…it’s none of my fucking business.

I also know another thing, and I know that this other thing is as true as anything is true on this planet. I know that if someone came off the street and walked into your place of work, whether it’s a hospital because you’re a nurse, a market because you’re a grocery bagger, a 29^th floor conference room because you’re a business consultant—or wherever you work—I know that if that person walked in and, to all of those around you said, in a VERY LOUD voice, exactly how much money you make…*and* that you make far too much money…*and* that you should be paid much less…

…I know that you will be pissed off.

So as you listen to the Elizabeth Warrens and Bernie Sanders of the world go on and on about how they know that CEOs are paid far too much money (while they put speaking fees and book royalties in their own bank accounts) just remember that while CEO’s are first in line to be pulled down into dismal mediocrity by “progressive” thinkers…

…you’re standing in the same line…it’s just not your turn yet.

Believe. Go. Do.

~TrevorZen

It wasn’t her mouth, her eyes, her
demeanor. ..a trap all…it was
the motion from there to here, a
sashay of emotion, the glisten of
wet skin
clinging fabric
the idea once had and forgotten
and reanimated
Lazarus of the moment
she seemed so…
bare
incomplete
structured
waiting
I had no choice but to follow
one heartbeat
after
the
next
it wasn’t her mouth, her eyes, her
willing trajectory
it was the shine of
bright expectation
jagged breath
and the
eventual
relaxation into
sliding
sinking
sullenly disappearing
into that
which is
her

This is your
paradox, your
choice, your moment
in the sun…riding
the edge between yes and no
you are and you aren’t
giving and taking you
push the envelope, or
not
you feel and you move and you
arrive and you leave…
you fall toward
and away from
love
you are at that moment of the giveaway
or the keep forever
you stand so close you can feel the heat
from skin from time from intent from
indecision
you stand so close
you hold your breath
you hold
your
breath
you are in that gulf
between giving and
taking…between winning
and losing

waiting
and
accepting the motion

this is your paradox
love
be loved
hold onto
let go
your choice

your moment
you stand so close
to me

choose yes

I woke up thinking about animals with razor sharp teeth and started wondering how often they bite their tongues. I have regular old human teeth, mostly molars but a few incisors, and I bite my tongue—or worse, the inside of my mouth—a couple times a month…and fuck it hurts. Tearing up, stomping feet, cursing the world hurt. If a lion or a bear or tiger did that it must be super painful….so…

…now I know why they’re so mean and grumpy.

And speaking of grumpy, well, at least mean, have you ever wanted to beat the hell out of a body builder just because they have all those muscles? They get the girls, they kick sand in your face at the beach (saw that in the back of a comic book) and generally they are simply badass…so why not want to beat them up? Well…I know exactly what to do…

…and when.

I’ve been lifting weights for about 3-4 years and I have to tell you, the best time to physically attack a body builder is right after they do a massive upper body workout. Seriously. You barely have to tap them on the shoulder to get them to cry like a baby…and they couldn’t lift a glass of water—let alone a hand to protect themselves…

…believe me, I know.

But if you really want to talk about something that just doesn’t sound right, we have to mention the fact that beautiful girls and women hate their own looks more than anyone else on this planet (hate their own looks, not hate the beautiful girls). I’m not kidding (but less than the way you’re thinking about it). Consider this, beautiful women are beautiful because they are close to the “ideal” that our chauvinistic and misogynistic society endlessly promotes…and that’s the point, they are “close”. They aren’t it exactly. They have flaws the same as the rest of us ugly people but their flaws are magnified a bazillion times and constantly noticed by themselves and others (to try to “bring them down” to our level)…but…

…dating celebrities, head of the line privileges and free drinks make up for it I guess 😉

Believe. Go. Do.

~TrevorZen