The Young Actuals

12924416_1156070307750254_1734732197348032226_nThis is me; having realized that no matter how much of a writer, hippie, or bohemian I am, I am also a guy who enjoys success in business.

After all, you wouldn’t want someone else to judge you through a single lens or label, so why do it to yourself.

You are not this or that. You are whole. And to recognize the parts of you that exist seemingly in direct opposition to one another is the essence of wholeness.

The trick to happiness and inner peace, for me at least, is living in a way that holds the opposing parts together – not neglecting one or the other, but living in a way that honors both the billionaire and the Buddhist in me.

The Young Actuals of this world are those who understand that freedom is not meant to be wasted living a mass produced life in which we are at best imitatable – and at worst: miserable imitations.

For the Young Actual, to fear what others think is suicide; to envy others: insanity; for we believe in our own originality, and in the quiet intuitive knowledge that God was always only ever an archetype for man.

And, tired of living with the results of backwards myths, we have no Gods but our highest selves.

Our religion: the private experience of living a personal myth.

Our existence: a creative rebellion in which art is once again made loyal to man’s interior truths, through which the invidvidual once again hears her own inner voice.

For we are not products of the collective, but the producers, and the stewards of consciousness itself.


Young Actuals ethos inspired by Ayn Rand, Albert Camus, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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My Own Kind

I used to love a girl by the sea,
Used to believe I was the sum of who I would be

Now I’m wiser and understand the differences:
Between boredom and loneliness,
Fear and worry,
Persona and personality

For, dear boy, I am changing
Coming to consciousness with all I was as a boy
In love
By the sea


It’s challenging to come to understand who I am, to see the difference between persona and personality, and to accept what is mine. 

I feel as if I have changed drastically as of late, but it’s only been the coming – or the return – back to myself. 

And not necessarily the me by the sea in love, that time or two, those years back. It goes further and deeper than that. 

I’ve been returning to the me who took long walks alone on the shore for hours; the me who spent school lunch days on library steps. I just never knew, back then, how much of my intuitive self had existed all along. 

Now, having confronted both the shadow and the anima, I meet with the self, and, in doing so, I find that I have a persona not as like my soul as I once thought. And in this confrontation with my Self, I find not only a deeper connection to my authentic self, but a reconnecting to the parts of the self, which, I had possessed for years – unbeknownst to me. 

It is all, to be fair and honest with myself, a lot to grasp at once. 

Hence, again, I write: to crunch equations within myself known only to my soul. That quiet, intrepid part of myself that refuses to be placated. 

I find no placidity in self-deception, which, were I to ignore the call of the innermost voice of my being, I would find myself fully guilty of. 

One of the things I am facing is the internal conflict between my perceived need for confidence as a requisite for happiness, and my need for humility to the same end.

I strive to love myself yet must admit I am not entirely contented. 

Add to this, a relationship in which I find myself guilty for an entirely different set of similar yet related infractions, and you have a recipe for which I must write to reaffirm – or rediscover – that up is up and down indeed down. 

All I know, is that I spent a long time on myself, digging my lonely bones up from the past. And, one thing I discovered is that I was a guy who thought, internally at least, that my story was over. 

So, I, having spent so long finally forming a whole acceptance of myself and a true liking of my persona, am one who now struggles in light of the fact that I have to discard that to yet again reaffirm the magic in my bones, which again lay hidden beneath new mysteries. 

As I said, all a bit much. 

Wish I had the answers. 

‘Cause I fucking don’t. 

I’m just here, trying to evolve my liking of myself.

Computing that at thirty and some months change, I don’t care much for the society of my contemporaries – to put it mildly. 

To put it dryly, how could I. 

I want to cut down to size my frustrations as arrogance, but I also know I am different –  for better or worse, am that I am what I am. 

I once wanted to relate to men, wanted to look up to them, and on the rugby pitch or I’m contests with women I did. Now, I find myself desolate. Not so much without a friend or without want of them so much as without men I can look to and say, these are my people, these are my boys. 

Frustrating. Frustrating and saddening. 

Yes I have a woman, am in love. But I miss being in-like with my own kind, with myself. 

Poetry: Kings, Pawns, Friends, and Fawns

My life was supposed to be so lavish, but it became tragic
Instead of making magic of what happened, I let it ride

My efforts were in vain to stay afloat amidst the flames,
For I almost drowned – I damn near went insane
I just couldn’t take the pain of feeling my ambitions die in me –
I couldn’t remain Dr. Jekyll with Hyde hurting inside of me

So I let my passions burn out, until I was nothing but a shell
A hollow pit for the flames, smoldering in my private hell –
Staring into the abyss, chewing on glass, and waiting on the world to change
Dreaming painfully of the spring, when I could be well again

Because when your vision dies, you’ll fail to see,
The difference between who you’ve been and who you could be
But this is what happens when love convinces you they know you better than yourself,
The moment they stop cheering, you’ll stop believing in yourself

And they’ll care naught for what you’ve lost,
For when they’re finished, you’ll be left to pay the costs –
Strange that your biggest fan can make you an enemy of yourself
As if they themselves bequeathed to you your happiness, health, and wealth –

Burning to the ground in a day, the person it took you years to become
Not caring for your pain when your value is done
So it is, how sometimes, kings are made pawns
Mere fodder at the ready disposal of their fawns

What will you do, now that you see it all,
Will you rise up, and be again a king ready for the fall
Or will you fortify yourself, and defend you as a man wiser than then
Declaring that never more will you be made to lay in waste by a friend

Poetry: The Jig is Up

I was born exiled from the past,
To a weightless family name

And with no ties to bind,
I wonder from whence I came

Why reproduce, I ask
Why leave a child to the task?

As if they had a plan in mind,
For I certainly was not

It’s as if they cared naught beyond the means,
Leaving their progeny so far downstream

For all I know, they managed only to reproduce –
For what else did they do?

This – I could not tell you


And if life is but a game,
Who writes the rules?

Did they think i’d find the answers in churches and schools?

What fools.

For classrooms are pews for little wretches too,
Do they not pray for acceptance, whether Catholic or Jew?

How institutions thrive on the promise of redemption overdue

Only in churches, no tution is due –
But to pass the pearly gates, a price is asked of you

Sign over this life, and you shall be saved

After all, you were born in sin from your first day,
So do as the men with the white beards say

And if not, hell will make this life seem like child’s play

Is this the fucking game I am expected to play?


The classical gods,
They are right royal pricks
Playing with us these cruel callous tricks
Giving me one, as if I was not bred by those who too had dicks


The jig is up
The ship is going down
And I, like them, am but a faceless name in a town

But unlike those before me,
I shall not leave the nameless to drown

Facing Life Honestly in The Winter of My Discontent

I don’t wish to make this long (As I would like to return to bed); however, some things must be said or, rather, in my case, written; for without writing I’m just thinking, and I need more than thoughts right now. I need patience. I need time. I need change.

Thankfully – unlike the latter part of my twenties – it isn’t me that I need to change – it’s merely my surroundings. Once, when I was younger, I was told the adage of ‘wherever you go there you are’. Only, this is not wholly true. Yes, you will run into yourself for as long as you need to suffer – but it is never a moment longer. And, sometimes, seasons and places accompany one another.

The season for being here and doing this is simply up. It’s that simple. We all pass the zenith of particular times and places, and sometimes new places offer promises in the whisper of secrets not yet told. And it is only in the soul of the individual, where it is most felt, where one finally says, “I must go.”

True, I could stay here forever – as many will. Only, that’s not how my story goes.

And for this, I owe no one – nor myself – a single apology.

Life is about letting go. And sometimes one must let go of the idea that one is happy in favor of the truth, which, when ignored, will eat you alive.

As the great Swiss doctor of the soul C.G. Jung wrote, “Until we make the unconscious conscious, it will direct our life and we will call it fate.”

In the same vein, Jung wrote, “When an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside as fate.”

Hence, why so many people are consumed by misery. They must be. For nothing else could prove to them how truly unhappy they are.

And this is the point of my writing tonight: to admit that it’s okay – normal even – to be unhappy.

I feel like my generation grew up in a kind of primary color emotional spectrum where our parents lived largely in contentment or misery, with only shades of anger, depression, and stress between.

But life, the richness of inner life, is not that simple; the human emotional system is simply not quantifiable in extreme absolutes, no matter how people seem to swing between them. I think – and again this is why I am writing tonight – I think that there is some terribly destructive stigma attached to anything outside of happy. We have been conditioned, from children, to believe that if we are not happy something is wrong.

How far this is from the truth. Sometimes unhappiness is merely the state one experiences when life does not conform to one’s values. And to think we are incapable of shaping our lives – for better or worse – is a travesty. I am, like you, the master of my fate, the captain of my soul. And I will not pretend this soul is contented. Not a single day longer. I can’t do it; it’s madness to live so dishonestly.

Only, what do we do? We fight with our spouses, or get frustrated with our children, each one of us too damn proud and wounded in self-pity to stand up and own our lives for what we can make them. So obsessed with being the hero of our stories, we become martyrs to our pity rather than be wounded by our pride. Why is this? I feel like it has something to do with pride always being foolish and never wise. Something to do with the maladaptive way we maintain our ego’s assertion that we are the better than other people – even if we have to make them our enemies to prove it.

After all, who actually wants to admit, or even feels it socially permissible to admit, that they are totally and completely unhappy due to no ones fault than their own. Such an admission would be rather wise, wouldn’t it. And rather uncommon; for, the problem is, most fear looking stupid. Again, pride’s folly. People desire to believe they are good at life too much to admit to themselves their own room for improvement in this game. I’d love to see a comedy skit in which people are honest on social media. If there were, we would see instagram pictures of laundry in crappy bedrooms, and facebook posts about how much people loathe returning to their lives each Monday. Instead, we have snapshots of “happiness”, which pass for a life.

Let me be the first to tell you, I am fucking miserable. Sure, I am happier than I’ve been in a decade – but thirty year old me is NOT A SINGLE BIT CONTENTED. I’m pissed. I’m considering this a low point. Lawrence Black has a lot of fucking shit to accomplish. In the words of Liz Gilbert: onward.

Of course, we can always just resign ourselves to our station in life. Thanking Jesus for our lot or pretending we love everything – in spite of our internal sufferings. Let me tell you, nothing makes me want to puke more than the kind of new age positivity that causes people to stick their heads in the sand. Sure, some people may feel they need that – and good for them. I’m just more in touch with my mortality than to rely on myths other than my own. I’m too conscious of my own potential – too fortunate to need to be thankful; too upwardly ambitious to pretend this is my peak or that the best is behind me. I’m thirty years old. I’m just getting started. However, this is hardly a solace. But, if anything, it forces me to let go. It forces me to face myself and my past honestly. This is, obviously, a good thing, but it doesn’t make it any less painful; although, it is far preferable to be in the winter of one’s discontent than to die in an endless summer of despair.

And with that, I shall caper nimbly back to my chamber.

 

Poetry: A Bit More Away

I woke up rolling over my thoughts,
Going back and forth, vexed and perplexed

Thinking of old loves,
Laughing and crying inside –
Strange how one lives on, while the other has died

Laughing how the first is now a re-al-tor
And the second, well, she was my Katie Holmes

And always, I hope my Bunny is well –
And Mousey, well, she deserves her upper-middle-class hell

Time will tell, I tell myself
Time will tell, the mountains say
But sometimes time goes, and we stay

But fear staves off nothing, so I fear death not
I only strive towards the toil and care of my craft,
The shaping of plots

We are either kings or pawns in life, a man once said
And having been the latter,
I shan’t let the former go to my head

So now, I cease writing to commence the day,
Having written this to put the past a bit more away