“All things are subject to interpretation,” said my old friend Friedrich Nietzsche. “Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.” Word up, DTP (philosophize).
I know I have professed in recent times to stick to my resolve in being less aware of people and more aware of the abyss in which mankind dwells temporarily in 24-hour cycles. This means work. Not noticing the iPhone Zombie brigade can be a challenge whilst walking the streets of Manhattan where no one wants to share the sidewalk? Major challenge! But I like to walk so it’s a trade off, the sign of a real New Yorker, intestinal fortitude in the face of inconvenience and aggravation. I have the power to stay alone on the island known as me. And really, the only people I notice are hot guys in gym shorts in Chelsea and now-very-gay Hell’s Kitchen. Usually I notice very fashionable women but since it’s been so hot no one really gets dressed up except young banker boys in tight suits and $1200 shoes/$300 hair parts (these guys WILL NOT BE unnoticed, it’s in the contract). I have a new pair of wireless Bose headphones that I could wear to really shut out the abundance of “likes” I seem to pick up on a lot (no Millennial bashing in this post because even I am tired of talking about them), but I might be too old and dare I say conservative in my approach to personal pride to walk the streets looking like Princess Leia. Plus, they fuck up my hair. AND, $350 headphones would probably be jacked pretty quickly if I made a wrong turn while concentrating intently on my #Scruffmail. So I stay bare and a slave to the elements around me. However, the elongated simmer of nearing a September 11 heat advisory in New York City distracts me from most everything else other than keepin’ the flip high without the need for a hat. Some can dig this particular inclination to vanity at all costs. DTC (commiserate).
There’s always a lot going on in my life, more than this editorialized brain can compartmentalize within a 1000 word limit confined to a blog. It’s been over two months since I moved back to NYC and let me tell you this: I realize I have peaked in my own self-actualization (sort of). It’s not just because everyone around me is so young or that I’ve taken the stance of zero ____’s given (seen it, done it, snorted it, fucked it, forgotten it). It’s a mere matter of acceptance, my favorite word. Grey area interpretation of truth. Everything that happens from here on in will be taken with grains of sodium around a virginal margarita glass. Maturity doesn’t have to mean I’m a square. Just means that I dance comfortably within my own skin with no need for validation. Friend said the other day I should shave my beard, that it would make me look younger, hence my cute Irish baby face and peaches-n-cream skin lathered nightly in coconut oil (that sounds gay) can shine on through. Why would I want to look younger? I said. I am what I am and what I am is not what I used to be. And that’s a good thing. My relationship with my own vanity has been a soul-crushing and tempestuous affair of futility. I’ve come to realize that the power to accept myself as I am is the only energy/power I need. I still lift weights and try not to eat bread and attempt good hair days, but everything else, including the ever-important #malegaze, has become much less important as I approach my 48th birthday in twenty days. It doesn’t matter to you or him or anyone that I still feel about 17 inside, the shell which carries my authentic self looks the way it looks, and the abundance of selfies I take tell me that I’m too old to be young and too young to be old, Goldie Locks would tell you I’m JUST RIGHT. Peaked! The only way to go now is down. Stay tuned.