Archive for February, 2012


There are times, when time dials down, when it seems like I’ve stepped outside myself and can view everything around me in a sort of slow-motion drizzle.

When it seems like I can feel every neuron firing, every connection made electrically becomes something visible in my mind.

Usually these kinds of moments are reserved for those in-between instances that populate my memory.

I have never been able to find that kind of immediacy in my waking life, save those times when I’ve been close to the edge.

I dance on those razor-edged moments. I have said, and will continue to say, that I never feel so alive as I do when I’m taunting mortality. Tempting fate is an art, a science of desire and destiny.

I am a seeker, I have always thought that experience is the prize in this life – if there is a something-after I believe that the only thing you can take with you are those memories, the lessons learned, the experiences that forged the ever-evolving you that you have become and will continue to become.

Tempered, like forged steel, by everything you’ve ever experienced with any of the senses we’ve been blessed with.

When my life slows down enough that I’ve got a few minutes to actually think, this is often what my mind turns to. I wonder at the universe and our place within its fabric.

I wonder at the people I see that are so seemingly content with the who-what-where-when-how’s of their lives. It’s something I’ve never really understood; how one can simply stop reaching.

What kinds of deaths did their dreams die?


I write words.

I write words far into the night, weaving tales from my waking dreams while the world sleeps.

Streams of…

Over the course of this month I have deleted far too many posts before they could become entries. I find myself not only editing my novel, but revising my thoughts before they can be set down in what passes for digital stone here at WordPress.

The days that flow backward behind me start to make a strange sort of sense in that regard.

I don’t feel feelings like this. I tend to experience life in a rather more cerebral way.

Analyze, categorize; nearly always neatly shelving everything I don’t need to survive.

What does one do when the parameters for survival shift dramatically to one side or the other?

When something simply passes right through the oh-so-carefully constructed wall?

Analysis is no help, there are no tangible explanations for what is coursing through me on a now-near-constant basis.

I feel somehow lost and found simultaneously.

I could continue and list many more polar opposites that would add both word count and descriptors to this post, but I’ll spare you (my scant readership) an overly-verbose accounting of the aforementioned phenomenon.

Yes, I just did that. I think that it’s something we’ve all made peace with here at curro ergo sum.

Back to my quasi-ephemeral discourse on my current existential dilemma. Oh my, I absolutely love that sentence. It says almost nothing while subtly (where are sarcasm brackets when I need them!?) stressing the education I’ve given myself over the last decade or so.

I am, quite obviously, in a mood. Not even a bad mood, just a…discomfited sort of mood. My balance is off, equilibrium upset, my gooey nougat center slightly exposed.

I feel…

Yeah, I think that about covers it. I suppose I could delete the entirety of the preceding and leave that rather vague half-statement and it would still say everything that I need it to.

Gods (goddesses?) but I am a strange one.


Life is a wonderfully strange journey, isn’t it? I continually catch myself smiling for no discernible reason. I’ll be at work, or writing, or running or…like now: sitting at a laundromat staring at the timer on my dryer.

Generally I find myself ruminating on the nature of life when I should be concentrating on something else. It just constantly pops up.

Even when things don’t seem to be going your way, even when you feel like everything is crashing down, life is such a gift.

Never forget that.

That was rather vague, I know. I am often intentionally vague. It’s not so much a “protecting identity” thing as it is a device for making my posts applicable to a broader range of situations…I think.

Maybe I just really enjoy being vague.

Keep your hopes up high and your head down low. You can make it through most anything.


It’s a tale of heartbreak and redemption. The story of an unlikely hero, forced by fate to make a choice that will change his world forever.

No big deal.

Writing words is fun, cover blurbs are just weird though.

Arms, coated as they were.

Omnia fortunae comitto

“I commit all things to fortune”

Meaning, I believe, something on the order of: its time to toss the dice.

That’s from the first recorded coat of arms for my surname.

1231 (records in Ireland and Scotland first mention the clan/surname 0″McCracken” in the mid-to-late 900’s).

Apparently, we’ve been down since day one. (Looking around at any of my family reunions would show you that not much has changed.)

Proud of my ulster-Irish roots today.

Well I’m proud everyday but as I’m quite the amalgamate of ethnicities it’s nice to focus on one in particular for a bit. And if I had to break it down into percentages, I’m more Irish than anything else.



I had a thought while reading through all of your comments on various posts of mine – you know who you are.

In fact, there aren’t that many of you, so were I not so lazy I’d just dig around and copy all of your names into this post…buuuuuut I am that lazy tonight so a y’all will have to suffice.

Thanks, by the by, for reading my blog. I very much appreciate all of you who take some time out of your life to read what I write.

So back to this thought I had – shocking I know – well, scratch that, it’s more of a feeling. Some sort of intuitive, limbic system, four-million-year-old-hunter-gatherer-instinct.

Now that was a mouthful. Probably of some kind of poisonous berries if I’m keeping the hunter-gatherer metaphor going.

Never eat the shiny berries. There’s a reason they look so wonderful and juicy and delicious on the outside.

They might even taste delicious. They generally kill you in your sleep eight to ten hours after ingestion.

Sound familiar? Yep some berries are just bad inside. It’s too bad that they mimic good berries so perfectly isn’t it?

Such is life. We’re here to live, love and learn, right?


As for me:

I always learn, sometimes about love, sometimes about life, sometimes something as simple as a recipe that I still use to this day, doesn’t matter what it is, the important part is that it happens, that it’s real.

I believe that there is always a little piece of that person that becomes a piece of you, and some of you becomes them.

It can never be wholly over while we both shall live. It can only become part of the background hum; those subconscious bits and pieces that form the whole of a person.

Everyone we meet is a village, a collage-in-progress of everyone they’ve ever loved.

I rather like that. It makes me feel much less alone, and somewhat more justified when I talk to myself.

Everest, of sorts.

I lean in my doorway, staring out into the inky blackness of the night. I can feel the doorframe pulsing against my shoulder, as though the beats of my heart were somehow shaking the very foundations of the earth.

The thoughts running through my mind incoherent, a texture of slight madness. A confusion of my senses.

I wonder at the complexity of the human heart, at the physiologic response imparted by a feeling. A growing tremor in my balance, equilibrium a distant and disquieting memory.

I find myself many times wondering. What is my subconscious trying to tell me at this time, this place? I question everything, it’s my natural reaction to nearly every external stimulus. I can be very much an extrovert, but deep inside I am still that same shy little boy, the same unobtrusive teen that grew into the man that I am today.

In my quieter and most honest moments I can admit that I am still that timid youngster, wrapped in layers of extreme accomplishments and a bravado bordering on outright arrogance. I have pushed myself to love the most extreme of life experiences – to leap without looking, to fall with no fear of dying…but the emotional leaps are the hardest, to look through those tattered holes in my heart, through the filmy wisps of my soul and still have so much hope.

I was cold for a very long time, much of my adulthood has been spent bucket-listing the most death-defying, insane sports I could apply myself to. But it has always been to allow myself to love unconditionally – without thought or reason – that is my everest.

I always think in terms of the visual, when I say my everest I mean exactly that:

The air crisp and cold, hard packed snow crunching under my boots. Whenever I take my eyes off of those desert tan boots I can see that there are vertical miles ahead of me. There are no Sherpas on this trek, the only carrier for my baggage is my back. The trail is steep and slippery. Crevasses dot the landscape, some seen, most hidden under seemingly solid snow. You can never know when you will fall, nor how far, or hard.

Some falls break pieces of you, pieces that are put back in but will never fully heal or fit together properly. They leave seams and scars, in places the glue wears ever thinner. Some are no more than scrapes and bruises. Every fall weighs down your pack, it gets heavier with every step you take along the path. The lonely trail grows only more arduous and treacherous as you ascend. Occasionally someone will walk with you for a bit, shouldering some of your burden as you shoulder some of theirs. Strange, how you’re carrying the same amount of weight but it seems so much lighter while you have someone to walk with.

Your companion almost invariably leaves to take their own path up the mountain. Some leave with kind words and an exchange of gifts, you keep a piece of each other forever locked away. Others flee in the dead of night, taking from you things that you will never get back and won’t discover until the morning reveals their footprints leading away – away down a trail you cannot, will not, follow.

You climb ever higher, the air is thinning, it gets harder to breathe, to go on, to place one foot in front of the other. It grows ever harder to believe that the path is right one, that you’re not lost and walking in circles.

Sometimes you stop at a base camp, restock and revitalize. Taking deep breaths to remind yourself why you must continue on. Even though your path stretches behind you for months, years, decades, you still have not summited.

You walk on, ever alone, never revealing everything to the single-serving friends that emerge from and re-merge with the darkness siding your trail.

And then you meet someone on that winding trail, someone that carries a torch, someone who somehow rekindles your own. And you wonder how you ever felt alive before that moment.

I wonder.

You marvel at the fresh snowfall, obscuring all of the other prints, the light banishing the shadows and you cannot fathom the how or the why, you are unable to articulate the fear-joy that tells you a crevasse is coming and that you’re in no way prepared for it. There is no explaining it, you just feel; fingers and toes thawed, the wind no longer ice-cold.

The fear sets in, the joy takes hold and the peak looms just above, beckoning. Drop the bag and leap it seems to say, could you but reach forth your hand.


…and the crowded room receded back, the music and laughter; stilted conversations droning down into a low babble. She looked down and said, “I know I said I don’t feel things like normal people do, but I really like you and I’m afraid I’m going to break your heart, or that you will break mine.” And my heart stopped, my breath caught in my throat and my mind roared down every path I could see sprouting forth from that moment and all I could say was, “Then let’s make it worth it.”


Where is my rage? Where is the lust for life that has carried me so far, so swiftly, through the life I’ve built?

What is happening to me lately?

Routine, you are my eternal enemy. I cannot fathom allowing myself to sit back to watch life flow by me, uninterrupted, bereft of my ideas and my passion.

Something needs to change. Stat.