Waiting Patiently, Ignoring Death's Whisper

He hears a faint whisper blowing through the trees, a beckon, an enticement, a sexy urge to end things. But the brave man, in his worn leather wide-brimmed sun shield and faded baggy brown corduroys, whistles quietly back at Mr. Grim's request, drowning him out for a while, buying enough time to notice a few more geese flocks buzz by, to witness a few more refractions of light bounce off of the pond's surface and shatter into fractals in his mind's wondering, wandering eye.

He smiles to himself, then audibly chuckles, since he knows the cosmic punch-line, the amnesiatic fate that waits for us all, as does the Reaper from beyond the yawning grave. But unlike his old pals consumed by the psychosis inducing drugs of society -- consumerism, materialism and the like -- this old dog sees through the tricks. That sleazy bastard, Death, wants us to die early for a reason, because he gets something from it, a payout, something that could be had on our end if only for a little patient waiting, a little work to live better.

Down go the slacks and off he pulls his worn sweatshirt over and past his weathered cheeks and silvered hair. His wiry muscles stay tuned despite the calendar. His iconic gaze, that of a true star, one of simplistic means and iron will, remains gripped in living.

Living well, if only to spite the old trickster, is enough for him. He likes the shape of that a la mode. He clears his mind of doubt and fear, and he dives deep into the frigid April water, through its glassy surface and over to the other side.

Support this website: Share on a social network or buy one of AJ's Kindle eBooks (or anything on Amazon by clicking on an Amazon link on this page). Thanks so much for your support, AJ

Fear of Success and Death

Both big fears, those of success and death, are cut from the same rug. They are individual fears, yes, but where they really hurt us is when they manifest themselves in the species as a whole.

We can point our index fingers at politics, economics, or religion as the main culprits, but they are just masks for the masked man Fear. With a sand grain of compromise we could hold hands across the earth, take care of Her (along with our brothers and sisters under the sun).

Religion is fear. Sam Harris says that all we need to behave badly is such. The funny part is that some of us think that we aren't religious because we're not worshipping a 2,000+ year old Abrahamic theology, yet there are 100 year old theologies like Capitalism, Liberalism, Conservatism, and Classism, that reign just as ugly. There is also another religion, one as old as the age of man, called Denial. We fear and deny ourselves a near-utopic future because we cling to our impermanence with ugly claws relentless selfishness.

So back to success and death, I argue that our fears of these imaginary monsters are just cheap shades put up to deflect the rays of reality, impermanence, and doubt.

Be a hero and live a life without fear. Live outside of our constructed window shades that block out the truth and prevent us from taking the next step in our species' evolution. It is a collective effort that will take all of us.

There are a few ways you can be a hero and support AJ. Free things are: try Audible or AmazonPrime for 30 days, link us to a social network like Twitter, Facebook or Reddit, or download and rate the podcast in iTunes. If you have a little spare money you can send a Paypal donation to ajsnookauthor@gmail.com, buy one of AJ's Kindle eBooks, or buy anything on Amazon by going through the Amazon links on the site. Thanks so much for your support, AJ

Ray Bradbury: The Muse Is That Most Terrified Of All The Virgins

Bradbury the master. One reads his work and knows that he's a romantic. Take "The Rocket Man". Family struggles. A father's dreams of returning to space whist home and coming back home whilst waltzing with the stars. Classic tropes without age. Aged, crafted curves in the lives of man that won't relinquish themselves save an event so profound even the master himself hadn't thought it up.

As someone who takes creativity seriously as both a topic of hobby and a topic professionally (I'm a junior high school teacher), the topic of the muse has always been one of my favorites. The ethereal servant to passion and hard work. Though powerful, her powers depend on our actions. A symbiotic beauty from another land. Someone Mr. Bradbury knew so very well:

The Muse, then, is that most terrified of all the virgins. She starts if she hears a sound, pales if you ask her questions, spins and vanishes if you disturb her dress. What ails her? you ask. Why does she flinch at the stare? Where does she come from and where go? How can we get her to visit for longer periods of time? What temperature pleasures her? Does she like loud voices, or soft? Where do you buy food for her, and of what quality and quantity, and what hours for dining? 

We might start off by paraphrasing Oscar Wilde's poem, substituting the word "Art" for "Love." Art will fly if held too lightly, Lightly, tightly, how do I know Whether I'm holding or letting Art go?  

For "Art" substitute, if you wish, "Creativity" or "The Subconscious" or "Heat" or whatever your own world is for what happens when you spin like a firewheel and a story "happens."

There are a few ways you can be a hero and support AJ. Free things are: try Audible or AmazonPrime for 30 days, link us to a social network like Twitter, Facebook or Reddit, or download and rate the podcast in iTunes. If you have a little spare money you can send a Paypal donation to ajsnookauthor@gmail.com, buy one of AJ's Kindle eBooks, or buy anything on Amazon by going through the Amazon links on the site. Thanks so much for your support, AJ