All My Posts Are Against Better Judgement…

Over all, I like to think that I’m a decent cat. I like comfortable moments, kind people, have no issues with the cuteness of kittens or puppies; hell, I love a penguin and a random otter (even puddles of platypi). I’m occasionally intelligent (when graded on a curve), decent with words, philosophies, and general idiosyncrasies. I’m kind to children (more often than not, though I still love to watch them fall) and tend to lead them towards knowledge. I even pick up hitch-hikers. I’ve loved and lost, taught and learned, passed, failed, planned and sailed by the seat of my pants. I tend to listen to strangers, even fools, and attempt, at least, to suffer them gladly. I try to allow that there is always something that I do not know in any situation and strive to be open to another’s side of any story, whatever the circumstance. I try to remember that I’m often prone to be wrong in my thinking. I even let people merge in front of me in traffic. I do, really.

Inversely, I once said something terribly wrong at a wake after a funeral of a friend, answered glibly to that girl in my youth looking only for hope and assurance, possibly (probably; I saw her eyes) crushing her that day, and been callously and daringly distant in the aftermath of stormy emotions. I’ve not called, not asked, not worried. I’ve done my best to prove some folks wrong that were only practicing what they thought to be right and proper at that time and place. I’ve mocked beliefs roundly and soundly in the face of people doing no more wrong than acting in what they believed to be right. I intimated once that a woman was a whore after she searched out what she couldn’t find any longer in me. I didn’t lie when it would have built more good and esteem by doing so (say what you will about the ‘truth’, but, sometimes, deception is kinder and better; I killed that moment when I could have bettered us both).

In the interest of a triad: I’ve set myself on fire while asleep with a cigarette and extinguished it with the remainder of a beer before me, and then went to bed. I’ve passed out on a public park bench in Disney World during a work convention and fallen backwards down a staircase stopped only by a bookshelf at the bottom floor at a party years previous. I’ve slurred, used wrong words, staggered, reeled, stumbled, and been that loud guy in the restaurant, laughing. I once scored better than the majority of Americans participating in a standardized IQ test while both drunk and stoned. I’ve been called a poet, a philosopher, and a genius. I’ve also been called sarcastic, an asshole, and, albeit, somewhat lovingly, Idiot-Boy. (Once, once, bless her, in a triumphant moment of hurt I told a woman that I had hoped to be the best man she knew. She cut me to the quick by responding: You’re the smartest man I ever met. Had you been there you might have found the acute and nearly surgical cut managed in that seemingly complimentary statement. I applaud her still that humbling. I even forgive her now, these years hence.)

So, am I an asshole? Am I a kind man giving flowers to strangers on a random day? Am I an idiot or a well read cat with a decent retention rate that’s not too shabby with some extrapolation? Am I a drunken buffoon with little to no self control, a mouth with no governor, or even some guy that actually spares the time to measure the worth of the word ‘is’ in a statement?

Yes. You bet your ass that I am. I’m whatever you need me to be, whatever you see me to be. And I’m willing to listen to what you need that to be.

Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe mirroring is a poor choice in personality. Maybe it’s a weariness and a weakness in me to look for others to be comfortable around me even while espousing things with which I do not agree. Comfortable. I may never shake that Buddhistic inclination. I want you to feel at home even while I crank homages to Yoko Ono on the stereo.

I have a variety of interests (the geek ones do take some precedent, but there are others). I find in talking to someone about Model T Fords that I dig some things about Model T Fords, while having no inclination to make a hobby of it. I know dick about golf, tennis, or football (American or otherwise), but I can find myself in that moment. I read the Twilight books and listened to Hootie and the Blowfish and if you don’t know how it pains me here to admit that then you’ve not met me in person. I’m curious, at times insatiably. The universe out there astounds me and I keep hoping to meet it here on Earth. I keep thinking, “What if I missed that one note that makes that song beautiful?” As I’ve missed that note before, I’m loath to do it again.

Currently, my self-assurance is lacking. Someone calling you a genius is always nice, but the source still matters. I said mirror earlier, but that’s not right. I just don’t set Mother Teresa up with, “Two guys are fucking an owl…” It takes a Dickweed or a Pug to complete that joke with, “Who?”

It’s been said that I cast my pearls before swine, but I don’t know my consumption, at all. And don’t think for a moment that that statement didn’t make me two inches taller that day; seeing the sheer size of my ego, I denigrate it daily for the health of those around me. I fear that no one should have to deal with a bastard that I might contain from the area of Minnesota to one of merely Rhode Island. Dear reader, do not doubt that I look out for you, despite the apparent mile markers that you see from me continually. Pride knows me; we drink the same Scotch, he and I; but I like mine over ice to dilute those last few drinks.

My worry here is maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe my ego should run as free as that cat (with his balls still intact; we had an agreement: to which he held, hence his balls) that I’ve not seen for days now. Maybe I’m wrong in my casual acceptance of what I see as a bad behavior in others. Maybe, gods help me, I’m not really standing for anything. I don’t like that. I don’t even really believe it, but I believe that my beliefs are not the end-all or be-all of anything. I am, after all, what you see in me. I keep hoping it’s decent, but, maybe, I fail in that. Maybe, inasmuch as you see me doing it. I hope I project too much, personally.

The problem with position is that you see yourself as being right, correct, as having that pathway up the mountain that gets you there. I see a mountain as an agent of infinite pathways. I don’t exaggerate, truly. I love the idea of infinite; I hope for it and seek it out. I’m way too taken with it. I want the universe to be infinite. I don’t really believe it, but I want so much for eight to be weekending sideways as an idealism that’s true (and by the aforementioned philosophy, infinity exists because I want it to). That’s a belief, too. Maybe that even makes it true. Anything’s possible, after all.

Infinity’s a bitch, really. Wrestle that one with zero (as dear John taught me). We all measure something, stop and start (read that as you will, I insist). Having not shared your thread, I’m inclined to think that I shouldn’t measure it against my drinking and reading own, but I do and then, afterwards, check myself. We fail at that. It’s what we do. Indeed, it’s why I love you out there, lurking, just like me; making all the same mistakes our ancestors did and our progeny will. There’s something marvelous in the idea that even infinity must repeat itself from time to time.

Writing this I realize (as I realized so, and too, for my tastes, lately that I’m attracted to acceptance, even of this physical me) I won’t be that positioned reality guy. I can’t be. I need these mirrors. They’re good for me. They’re a brush against that infinity every time I find myself in a moment that I know I wouldn’t have willingly sought out. I love too much the connections where none would seem to be. Your brain knows that the white noise of alien music still contains that G Minor seventh that once struck you in that one song

Hello, my name’s MacEzra and I need too much the acceptance to groups with which I don’t belong because I just can’t seem to find one in which I do (which isn’t completely true, but never trust a poet, as he knows that truth only exists as perception and that perception is the only truth).

I hope you don’t think anything less of me, but, then again, maybe, more than likely, that’s just the point.

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